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mourninggaylibra · 1 year

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1 — Marching Band and the London Eye

It is the fall of 2015, and I am in love for the first time.

The high school I attended had a reputation for having one of the best arts programs in the state. With multiple musical ensembles, a well-funded theater program, and talented students to participate in them, my attendance was largely in pursuit of realizing a dream I had since I was young. The story, I’m told, is that one day at age three, I asked my mother to enroll me in piano lessons. After she did, I never stopped playing, with dreams of going to a music conservatory and performing for audiences as a living. Music was my greatest passion, and the high school I attended let me broaden my musicality when I joined the marching band.

In retrospect, I do not look back on marching band fondly. But in order to participate in the concert season—your typical sit-down playing in a concert hall—you had to first finish marching season. The marching season is rigorous: with band camp, weekly rehearsals, frequent weekend rehearsals, and a number of competitions, the entire season is time-consuming. It also affords an opportunity to get well-acquainted with those who march alongside you; and that was how I met 1.

At first, 1 was not much of a musician; part of the perks of joining the school’s marching band was that you could attend the spring break trip, which this year, was a trip to London. These trips are an incentive for lots of students who don’t mind the rehearsals and performances, only to never pick up their instrument again upon graduation. I got the impression that this was why 1 had joined the band when I was marching beside him, but didn’t mind; I was excited to go to London, too.

1 and I stood next to each other in our field formation, a formation that was randomly selected by the marching director. Between musical runs, the students on the field would chat to pass the time, and the conversations I had with the people around me were no different. I asked general, get-to-know-you questions at first, especially when I didn’t know the person standing next to me. “How long have you been playing?” “What kind of music do you listen to?” “What classes are you taking?” When I asked these questions to 1, he told me that he was in advanced math, that he loved ‘80s rock, and that he had started taking lessons for his instrument because he wanted to become a better player.

As the marching season progressed, small talk with 1 turned into laughs, and the laughs blossomed into the most fulfilling friendship I had experienced in my life. My exchanges with 1 on the field were natural, and the rehearsal’s long hours passed quickly. Soon performances and competitions began, where 1 and I shared our excitement over a good score and frustration for scores that weren’t what we’d hoped for. The performances allowed our conversations to go on outside the marching field, and when we finally exchanged numbers, we were able to speak to each other every day for hours on end, talking about everything from our families, to our dreams, to our struggles. Sharing my thoughts with 1 came easier than anything in my life had before; where my piano practice sessions were long and arduous and my schoolwork was boring and time consuming, talking to 1 was as easy as breathing.

Two months later, as marching season came to a close, 1 and I remained close. I’d told him about my life’s passion, the piano, and my plan to study it after high school. When he heard about my dream, he asked me to play for him. I think it was mostly out of curiosity: I told him that I skipped class on multiple occasions to practice on the piano in the choir room to prepare for my college auditions. When he asked to hear me, I think a part of him wanted to know what someone who really loved music sounded like when they played, to really discover what it meant to hear someone who loved the sounds they created unconditionally.

To me, playing for other people is almost a sacred act. With each note played, the weight of all my past mistakes and regrets is released, and for a few short minutes, I am free of the burden of my own perceived shortcomings. Playing for 1 meant that he would see a piece of me that few others do; and to play for him privately only meant the scene would be that much more intimate. It would be a private concert, but I couldn’t refuse.

I played Beethoven for him. When I finished, he applauded, even though he and I were the only people in the room. My face was beet red as I took my hands off the keys and turned to look at him. “You really inspire me,” he said after he finished clapping. “I’ve really started to like classical music since I met you, and I think we should play something together sometime.” He continued to tell me about what he was working on in his music lessons, and proposed we begin rehearsing to play it together.

When I agreed it was because we wouldn’t be working towards a performance or a competition, as we had been so used to in the band program. These private rehearsals were just for us to share our love of music with one another, to spend time together, and privately marvel at the music we could create.

Our rehearsals started soon after I initially played for 1, but to call our meetings ‘rehearsals’ doesn’t describe how we spent the time together. Sure, we played for maybe fifteen minutes, but then we’d pack up our things and leave for a restaurant or café, and just sink into what came so easily: conversation and laughter. Sitting across from each other on those days was as if we had not seen each other in weeks. We always had new things to talk about, a different situation to laugh about, or new music to share with each other, and the conversation never stalled. At the end of these ‘rehearsals,’ one of us would drive the other home, and we’d continue to talk on the phone with as much urgency as we had at the dinner we just left. Everything he said made me smile, and our friendship was second nature to me: We’d enjoy the afternoon together, I’d drive him home, he’d call, and I’d answer with butterflies in my stomach, trying to hide the giddy grin that automatically appeared on my face when I read his name on my phone.

I started developing feelings for 1 during those rehearsals, and the feelings scared me. 1 had easily become the person who knew me best, and it was inevitable that I would develop a crush. We had been spending so much time together, going to dinners and only breaking our conversations to sleep, that I wished I could tell him how much I never wanted our time together to end. But I had no idea what he thought of me. I thought the ease of our conversation might mean that he liked me back, but I couldn’t know for sure. Despite asking each other about so much, our romantic inclinations were never the topic of discussion, and I wondered if he viewed our relationship in the same way I did.

I had two options in terms of dealing with my crush: I could tell 1 how I felt and risk losing him, or I could do nothing, and continue being his best friend. Maybe he felt the same way, and I was wasting time by keeping the secret of how I felt to myself. For the time being, I chose not to tell him, hopeful that perhaps the reason why we never spoke about our crushes was because he was afraid of losing me, too.

As the months passed, we fell into a schedule of waiting for each other outside of class, escorting one another to the next one, and waiting for the next hour to end so we could see each other again. And while the rehearsals eventually ended, the dinners and coffee shop visits did not. We continued to learn more about each other: I told him about my tumultuous family life, he told me about his life before he moved here. It seemed that with every day our relationship deepened, and even when it seemed neither of us had anything left to say, there was always more. We were eager to learn absolutely all there was to know about the other.

With each added detail, my feelings for him grew larger, to the point that they felt bigger than myself. By springtime, I felt I had to tell him my secret. My feelings about him were a weight on my heart, sinking into my stomach, and leaving my head with little else to think about other than, “what if?” What if he liked me back? What if he is waiting for me to tell him? These prospects excited me, but another question was ready to pull the rug from under my feet entirely: what if he doesn’t like me back?

By this time, the London trip was a few weeks away. 1 was excited to see a new place, but my feelings for him dampened my excitement. I fantasized about what would happen when we left: seeing the landmarks, trying new food, walking the cobble-stoned streets together; but if we were to explore London together, would I be able to continue to keep the secret? I didn’t think I could. I had to tell him how I felt about him.

1 stood in the courtyard after school had ended for the day, and the band was prepped to leave for London in a week. I had skipped my last class to play piano in the choir room, and when the bell rang for the day, I felt that today was the day to tell him my secret. I couldn’t carry the feelings with me anymore, and if it ended badly, I would have time to readjust my London expectations; namely, seeing the city without him telling jokes at my side.

When I walked up to him that day, it was like any of the other hundreds of times we had approached each other before. It was routine: a smile, a “hey,” and a jump into whatever funny story we had to tell that day. “Hey,” he said to me, excited and gleeful. He looked at me, expecting me to tell him where I’d been for the last hour and about whatever excuse I gave an administrator who walked in on my practice session. But I couldn’t say anything at all.

“Everything alright?” he asked. I looked at him, in the eyes I had come to love, and hugged him before he could see that mine were watering.

I told him, with my head on his shoulder and his arms wrapped around me, “I think I like you. I really like you. And I don’t know what to do about it anymore, but you’re my best friend. And I just feel like I have to tell you. I am so scared to tell you, please don’t be angry with me.” I let go of him, looked at him again, and walked away before he could say anything back. I was embarrassed and I felt vulnerable. I had never confessed my feelings to anyone before; but then again, I had never felt this way about anyone before.

A million thoughts were racing through my head as I walked away from 1 and rushed to my car, chief among them that I shouldn’t have left him there. I dropped an emotional ton of bricks on him and left him alone. No matter what he thinks about what I said, he surely doesn’t like that I didn’t give him a chance to answer. To this day I wonder what he would’ve said to me had I never ran away after I told him.

In my car I expected him to call. Even though it was our routine to talk after school, I didn’t dare call him. I had told him what was weighing on me, and it was his turn to respond to it. On that day, my phone never lit up with his name. Instead, I bawled as I drove home, convinced that I lost the closest friend that I’ve ever had and that I would see London without him.

The days leading up to London were largely the same as that drive home. I skipped more classes than usual to practice and cry in the choir room, waiting for 1 to ask where I was, to ask me to dinner to talk, to tell me he doesn’t even remember what I said to him. But he didn’t even look at me, let alone talk to me, after that day in the courtyard. I was afraid of what it would be like seeing him on the trip to London. Would he act like he didn’t know me?

As I packed for London, I resolved to let 1 keep his space, and to enjoy the trip as best as I could. On the busses, the flights, and group outings to London, I kept close to my other friends; and he did the same. Though part of the same band, we never crossed paths. London was beautiful, and it was a challenge to not let my mistake ruin the trip. But I ended up loving every moment, spent close to the friends I loved and who loved me back; without romance complicating any of it.

We explored the museums and the centuries’ old architecture, in awe of the idea that we were standing in buildings that were older than the country we were visiting from. The final night in London was spent watching a show in West End, followed by a trip around the London Eye: a huge Ferris wheel overlooking the city. We decided to watch The Phantom of the Opera, and once it was over, we walked to stand in line for the Eye, eager to view London from its peak. By the time we arrived at the front of the line, the usher put us in a partially filled car whose other inhabitants I should have seen coming: 1 was in it with a few of his friends. The usher motioned for us to get in the car, and we couldn’t refuse. I looked at 1 as I entered and didn’t know what I wanted to happen once the car started moving. Did I want him to talk to me and repair our relationship, creating a scene that could only come from a movie: a reconciliation while looking at the most famous view of London? Or did I want to enjoy this moment without risk of spoiling it with my tumultuous feelings about 1?

As I entered the car and 1 turned to look at me, he smiled wordlessly. I smiled back and eagerly moved to the window of the car, watching the sidewalk below get smaller and smaller as the wheel lifted us ever higher. Among the group’s gushes at the city’s beauty, we shamelessly asked others to take photos of us. My friends and I stood, our backs to London’s skyline, and smiled as other members of the band took our picture, then we’d do the same for them. It was as beautiful as any other moment I’d experienced that far in my life. As we ascended, all of us were transfixed by the scene: Big Ben in one corner, the Thames in another, and the city’s bright lights illuminating the car. I thought of how much I would have loved to share this moment with 1. In knowing that he was only a few feet away from me, I felt a wispy melancholy, the kind that is fleeting but nevertheless felt; like a sudden and light rain on a long walk home.

I was pointing out the London landmarks we had visited the day before to a friend when 1 came up to us. He looked at me with kind and sympathetic eyes, and asked if my friend would take a picture of he and I. My friend smiled as she took the camera 1 offered, and arm-in-arm, 1 and I smiled as the camera shuttered, and the car rounded the top of the Eye. He retrieved his camera, said “thanks,” and returned to the view.

When I look at the photo of 1 and I now, I’m reminded of everything that isn’t in the frame: the near-instant friendship, the months of rehearsals and dinners and phone calls, the history we confided in each other, the happiness I felt when I saw him at the end of a long day, the music we shared. Of the many things that 1 became: my first crush, my first confession, and eventually, my first heartbreak, the picture of us with London’s lights behind us reminds me that most importantly, he was the closest friend I had ever had as a confused and lonely gay teenager. His company was a comfort in that confusing time, and to this day, few others have wanted to learn about me in the same way that 1 did; and perhaps because of him, I am more hesitant to share my inner-most thoughts with anyone else.

When the car reached the bottom of the Eye, we departed and 1 pulled me aside as the others continued on. I had an overwhelming urge to apologize to him for ruining our friendship, and as I took a breath to speak, he stopped me with his own words. He said to me, “I was so mad at you. I am so mad at you. I wrote a million things to say to you and never said any of them because of how mad I felt when you left. But I care about you so much. You are my musical inspiration and my best friend, and I don’t like when you aren’t in my life. I don’t want to be strangers to each other, but I don’t feel the same way about guys that you do.”

When he finished, I was heartbroken and happy at the same time: happy that he was finally talking to me, heartbroken that he would never feel about me the way I did about him. “It’s okay,” I replied. “I’m so sorry.” He hugged me before we joined the others, and as the band returned to the hotel, I wondered what would happen when we returned home.

Everything was different after that night outside the London Eye. At our now-infrequent visits, 1 told me about girls he liked, and about the dates he went on with them. He no longer looked at me with the same eyes that he did prior to learning my secret, and when he would cancel plans to see his dates, we would fight. It was a difficult thing to fashion a friendship when the sting of his rejection still lingered in my chest. While I was eager to hear about his dates, they brought me no joy. I grew jealous of the girls he dated, and was upset with 1 for even telling me about them; livid when he would cancel our rare plans to see them instead of me.

The last fight we had was when he cancelled our plans for an afternoon at the café together to go to the birthday party for the brother of a girl he had been seeing. It was immature for me to be upset, in retrospect, but I was having difficulty balancing what I wanted, with what he wanted. I quickly realized that I was no longer the best friend that had happened upon him one day on the marching field. I was a murky figure in the background, where his interest had shifted to spending time girls. I confronted him about the birthday party, “You don’t even know her brother,” I said to him when he cancelled. “What’s the point of going?”

When he tried to reason with me, I grew angrier. “I really like this girl, and it really doesn’t have to do with her brother at all,” he said. “I just want to spend time with her.”

“But we had plans, and I never see you anymore. You can’t just cancel out of nowhere for someone you barely know.” I felt dejected, replaceable, and forgotten. I guess that in the time we didn’t speak, he was able to pursue other things—including girls—to fill the hole that I had left when I confessed my feelings to him. His world was bigger without me in it.

The argument was getting worse. We started using the things we knew about each other against the other, making me regret ever telling him about my past. He eventually used my own confession against me, affirming my deepest fears that I was his burden, and that I was only in his life out of pity. “It’s not my fault you’re in love with me. You need so much validation from me, and it is so tiring,” he said.

When he said that to me, I thought of what he told me when I played Beethoven for him for the first time, all those months ago. Between then and now, 1 was affectionate towards me, eagerly waited for me outside of my classes, and confessed that I had inspired to make him a better musician. While I was grateful for his friendship after the night on the London Eye, I didn’t want our history be the only thing we still had in common, and I couldn’t be his burden anymore. “Have fun at the party then. I hope I didn’t ruin it.” With that, I resolved to never ask him for anything else, and to refuse if he were to ask to grab dinner or coffee again. I couldn’t continue to see him now that I knew how he truly saw me: a problem to tend to, a burden to carry, and an admirer to pity.

My phone lit up again, and I expected a hateful reply to ensure he had the last word. To my surprise, 1 answered in what was the last kind thing he said to me. “I’m not even going to the party anymore. I wouldn’t be fighting with you about this if I didn’t care about you.” I read this and cried about him for the last time. His words indicated that the relationship had become something complicated, where true nostalgia was mixed with regret. That’s how I viewed our friendship then, back in the spring of 2016, and indeed, it is how I view it now: an automatic friendship that grew too fast, and a series of firsts that I didn’t know would let me fall without a net to catch me. 1 was the first time I played piano for a crush, the first time I went out to dinner with a boy, and the first time I hoped that our times together would never end.

I will never forget those initial words he said to me when he heard me play Beethoven; “You inspire me, and I’ve really gotten into classical music since I’ve met you.” I reflect on those words especially now, when I see that he continued to study music into adulthood. I like to think that those rehearsals together had a positive impact, and I hope 1 looks on them as fondly as I do. I also know that with those rehearsals came too much attachment.

That was how I thought relationships were when I first confessed to 1: a bond shared with someone you couldn’t stand to be apart from, and who you could keep conversation with for hours on end. Part of me still hopes that maybe one day another person will again light up when I play piano for them or make me feel comfortable enough in sharing my inner-most thoughts in the same way that 1 did. To date, he’s the only one who has.

In the summer after our fight, 1 and I reconciled. We apologized, and even had the chance to perform together again, albeit under more professional circumstances. I wonder what today would look like had I never approached him in the courtyard all those years ago and confessed how I truly felt. While I have the hindsight to know that I was young and naïve, I still feel the same tinge of regret in my heart that I did when I saw him on the Eye, for losing someone so important to me.

#prose #short story #evelyn hugo #seven husbands of evelyn hugo #taylor jenkins reid #literature #my writing #gay love #gay art

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kinetic-elaboration · 1 year

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December 16: Retirement and Concert

Long day ahead. My anxiety about this trip is really inching upwards. I'm glad I don't have to travel tomorrow and that I get one day entirely to myself to transition to vacation mode.

Largely because I have been thinking about this weekend (with its responsibilities re: packing and cleaning and then traveling) as part of the pre-vacation scary time and not the on-vacation relaxing time, I have not quite accepted that today was my last day of work and I don't have to go back for two weeks. I have not yet unclenched.

Today was my co-worker's retirement party. She just wanted a low-key staff-only pizza party, so that's what we did and it was great! We gave her a gift (an outdoor stove) and we ate a LOT of pizza and the biggest salad I have ever seen. And garlic knots and a huuuuge dessert tray. But the salad dressing was so good I just kept dipping bread in it. The Dean stopped by briefly and I subsequently learned quite a story about the drama surrounding the last retirement party.

This story came up in one of the many, many distracting conversations I had. Others included a very silly digression on our new, purple hole punch (the hole punch is purple to deter theft, and part of the funniness of it was that it had to be approved by IT lol) and a conversation near the Princeton files in which K and I realized that we both learned middle/high Latin out of the same textbook. I did get done basically everything I intended to do: all the stuff that came in today, shelving, a little bit of dusting, and enough organizing to leave me with mostly clean surfaces and only one cart. I didn't make a list for next year but that's okay. I....might still do that later even though I'm on break.

Also, silly and all over the place as this day was, it will never beat the day in 2019 where I went to a staff breakfast, a TS lunch, an afternoon baby shower, and got literally about 15-20 minutes of actual work done in an 8 hour day.

Immediately after work, I came home and then left again to go to a Christmas concert at my former coworker's church with her and some of her family. I was glad to see her again and to get to chat a little bit and I enjoyed the concert also. I don't attend this church but it was basically generically Christian, with very little other than just nice songs sung by a choir with an orchestra. I wish the mix of music had included a little more in the way of traditional carols and a little less of Christmas music I had not heard of, although I did learn a new song I enjoyed, but overall I had a lot of fun and am glad I went. The whole show of it was very well done also: the lighting, the pacing, etc.

Now I'm so tired though. I got back at 9:30, and so far have accomplished not very much. I'm slowly eating some pasta because my stomach has been through a lot today. When that is done I will just go to bed I think. My introvert need to be alone is just SCREAMING right now, I am so overwhelmed.

#the year 2022 #2022: rl

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lady-amethyst18 · 3 years

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I'll hear you sing

Emma paced back and forth in her room. On her bed laid a black choir dress, a fake pearl necklace, and a compact of blush. She was getting ready for her choir concert this evening. But today was more nerve-wracking than ever. Because she was chosen as the lead singer for the last song of the show. She got lots of praise from her teachers and peers, saying that she had a beautiful voice and was perfect for the solo act. She even practiced the song every day to herself and memorized the lyrics all by heart. But when the day finally came, she felt like she was going to melt into a puddle of goo.

What if she froze out there in front of everyone? What if she messes up and forgets her cue? What if she hits a wrong note? What if the audience doesn't like her singing? What if she completely embarrasses herself out there? She started pacing faster. She held her cheeks in her hands, and her stomach started flip-flopping. "Stop stressing, Emma." She said to herself. "Stop stressing!" She repeated. She looked into the mirror, looking at her nervous face. She shook her head and groaned loudly. "I need to go for a walk." She said as she started heading downstairs and out the door.

She walked through the neighborhood, trying to clear her head of the nerves of singing solo for the first time. She still felt butterflies in her stomach, and she could swear she was starting to sweat. Perfect... She was going to look like a mess by the time she gets to the concert. She wondered if she had enough time to take a shower by the time she got back. She brushed her hair out of the way, closing her eyes while still walking. "I have to pull it together. Maybe I can just tell the teacher that I can't be the lead singer. Or perhaps I can just pretend to lose my voice and they'll get someone else to sing. Or-" She was so lost in thought that she bumped into someone. Her eyes shot open as she finally snapped back to reality. "Oh my! I'm so sorry! I-I wasn't paying attention." She apologized. "It's ok. No harm done, dear." Said the voice.

She looked up to see who she bumped into. She followed the red and white pants up to the white and gold cloak until finally, her eyes reached the top of the person's head. A white top hat with a red strap pulled over his eyes. "Balan?" She called. Balan smiled widely upon seeing the young girl. "Emma!" He exclaimed. "What a pleasant surprise! I didn't expect to be bumping into you out here."

"I should be saying the same thing." She pointed out. "What are you doing out here?"

"I was just checking up on one of the latest visitors. Their hearts are healing just fine." He looked at the girl, who started to avoid eye contact with him. "But what about you? Seems like your heart could use some cheering itself." Emma rubbed the back of her head. "I just wanted to step out for a moment to clear my head. I've got too much on my mind." She said.

Balan focused on the girl's eyes. They had a look of apprehension and the glistening sweat on her brow added to his suspicion. "Emma," He called out softly. "I'm saying this with love, darling. But you look like you're about to have a heart attack. Why don't you come back with me to the theater? Tell me what's bothering you so much." Emma looked around the corners. The theater is nowhere to be seen. "Uh... Where is the theater?" She asked. Balan smirked as he held Emma's shoulder and snapped his fingers. "Right here!" He announced. It was in the same place where Emma initially found the theater. A brightly lit alleyway through the overgrown vegetation. She couldn't help but roll her eyes at Balan's goofiness. "Now then. Ladies first." Balan humbly opened the door and gestured her inside.

He leads her inside to the lounge area. The room was quiet and well decorated with a dusk color pallet that painted the walls. The chairs and couch had plush red velvet seats with golden buttons as decoration. A water pitcher with a few glasses stood on a tray with several tea flavors and what looked to be a bowl of miscellaneous fruit. "I don't think I've been to this part of the theater. It's nice." Emma complimented. "Why, thank you. Lance and I decorated it ourselves. Why don't you sit down and relax? Take a seat wherever you want." Balan said, taking a seat on the couch. Emma decided to take a chair that was sitting away from the table.

"Now then," Balan spoke, crossing his legs. "Why don't you tell me what's going on? Why is it you look so nervous?" Emma once again avoided eye contact. She clasped her hands and held them in her knees. "I've... Got a choir concert to go to... And I got the part as lead singer for the final song." She replied. "Oh, how wonderful! This must be a big moment for you." Balan cheered. But Emma shook her head. "It's too big!" She exclaimed. "I've never sung solo ever before in my life! I get my teachers and choir classmates like my singing, but what about everyone else? I feel like there's so much riding on this moment!" She stood up and started to pace around again.

Balan just nodded as Emma continued her tangent. "Nervous sweating, fast heartbeat, tense posture, thinking about how the performance could go wrong. Yep. Seems to me you've got a terrible yet common case of stage fright." He spoke up. "You think!?" She yelled back. "What if I hit a sour note?! Or what if I miss my cue?! Or what if the audience doesn't like my singing?! There's too much pressure; I can't stand it! I don't think I can do it! If I have to sing lead, I think I'm going to pass out and die!" She sat back down in the chair, fanning herself and hyperventilating. "Ok, ok, relax. Freaking out isn't going to help. You're going to give yourself an aneurysm, and then what will you do?" Balan stood next to the girl, handing her a paper bag to breathe into. To which she snatched it out of his hand and began huffing and puffing into it.

She continued this for about a minute before she finally caught her breath. The maestro thought this was ultimately a good time to get a word in edge-wise. "Emma," He started. "What if I told you I, too, get stage fright?" Emma paused and looked at him with wide eyes. "What? YOU get stage fright? The maestro of positivity himself get's stage fright?" She asked. Balan nodded. "Yep. Sweating, tensing up, thinking about how it could all go wrong, even getting butterflies in my stomach." Emma looked doubtful. "You do NOT get butterflies."

"No, no! I really do get butterflies. See?" He pounds his stomach and spat out a butterfly. Emma watched in amusement as she watched it flutter away. She tried her best to hide a giggle. "Balan... Th-that's not funny." She said, restraining her laughter. "Oh, come on! You're laughing. Look, I'll do it again!" He pounded his stomach again and spat out another butterfly. A few bursts of laughter left her. "Balan, stop! This isn't helpful!" She laughed. Balan laughed along with her.

"Alright, all joking aside." He said at last. "I used to get terrible stage fright when I was just starting out at helping people restore their balance. I was about... Oh, 300 years old until I finally grew out of it." Emma cocked her head to the side, wondering where Balan was going with the story. "So... How did you grow out of it?" She asked. Balan shrugged. "Oh, it wasn't easy. I could barely get through the introduction without my knees knocking. Sometimes I would get so stressed I would stop rhyming. But you know, after all that time, I was finally starting to enjoy it. The longer you're on stage, and the more you do it, the thought of being afraid kind of dies. I also had a secret hack that could help with my nerves."

"And what was that?" Emma asked.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Uh, sure."

Balan looked back and forth before kneeling down and whispering in Emma's ear. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but I always had someone cheering me on in the audience. And do you know who that was?" Emma shook her head. "It was none other than Lance." Emma's jaw dropped. She knew that Balan and Lance had a sibling relationship, but they were never two peas in a pod. "No!" She exclaimed. "Really? You're pulling my leg." Balan smiled. "It's true. This was back when we were going easier on each other, quite long before the bouts. For some reason, it comforted me knowing he was there. Now, obviously, our relationship has changed over a few millennia, but I never forgot how much he helped me." Emma smiled. It made her heart grow knowing that Lance still had a heart in there somewhere despite being a negative maestro.

"Now, don't tell Lance I said this, ok?" Balan pointed out. "He doesn't want anyone to know he has feelings. He says it will kill his stoic reputation." Emma zipped her lips and held out a hand, telling him that she promised. "I think it's thoughtful that someone would always be in the audience cheering you on." She paused for a second, thinking about what the maestro was talking about. "... Balan," She started. "Would you... Watch my concert tonight?" Balan smiled widely. "Aha! You finally picked up what I was putting down! Of course, I would love to hear you sing! What time does it start?"

"It starts at 6:30."

"Oh, that's an hour and a half from now. We better get you there quick!" The maestro looked at the girl, seeing that she still had sweat on her brow and her hair was messy after panicking about the show. "Hmm... But first, let's get you dolled up before you go to that concert."

The maestro snapped his fingers, making Emma's choir dress, necklace, and blush appear. He draped the dress and necklace over his arm while holding the compact in his hand. "Head to the bathroom and clean yourself up, dear. You still have time to clean up before you go on stage." Emma smiled as he leads her to the bathroom. He handed over the dress and compact as he waited outside for the teenager to finish up cleaning. A few minutes had passed, and Emma took a shower, blowdried and brushed her hair, put on her dress, and applied her makeup.

Balan looked over as she opened the door. "Why, Emma!" He cheered. "You look lovely! Though something is missing." He looked closely at her, trying to pinpoint what was missing. "Oh!" She announced. "My necklace! All the girls in the choir are meant to wear these fake pearl necklaces." Balan dangled the necklace with his fingers. "You're meant to wear these?" He asked.

"Yeah."

Balan scoffed. "You're not going to wear this! The star doesn't deserve FAKE pearls. Come here; I have something better." He tossed the fake necklace aside. He clasped his hands together and rubbed them firmly. When he opened his hands, a real pearl necklace appeared. Emma stood in awe. "Wow! Is this real?" She asked. Balan smiled with pride. "It's the genuine article. May I?" Emma nodded as Balan put the necklace around her neck. "There you go!" He said. "Now you're perfect!"

Emma's smiled widened. She already began to feel much better. "You promise you'll be there when it's my turn to sing?" She asked. "Cross my heart." The maestro promised as he made an X mark around his heart. "Now, go on. Your teachers and peers will want to see you. I can't wait to hear you sing." He said as he leads her to the door. "Thanks, Balan. I hope to see you there." She said as she left, hoping the maestro would keep his word.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The concert was nearly over. It was time for the final song and Emma's lead role. She scanned the audience, looking for the top-hatted being. "Emma!" Called out a voice. It was Emma's choir director. "Are you ready for your solo?" She asked. The girl looked away. She felt her chest get tight, and she felt butterflies in her stomach again. "I'm... Expecting someone. In the audience. They promised they'd hear me sing. I can't find them." She continued to scan the audience, hoping to find her friend.

The director knelt down to her level. "I know you're nervous, Emma. But I'm sure that your friend, whoever they are, are out there in the audience right now, just waiting to hear your voice. And I know you'll be the brightest star out of anyone tonight. Have confidence in yourself, sweetheart." The whole choir group started going on the stage. "Take your place, Emma. Don't be scared. You can do it." The teacher held up two thumbs as Emma climbed up on stage.

As the curtains pulled away, the audience clapped their hands. Emma took a silent but deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. As the music started, she heard a slight sound. Her eyes wandered the auditorium until she looked in the front row. A man with seafoam green hair and a handsome white face with purple eye shadow. It was Balan! He undid the glamour for her. Seeing him, her heart instantly lifted as she started her song.

Emma could feel every ounce of nervousness melt away as she sang the lyrics. The more she carried on with the song, the less she noted the people in the auditorium. Dare she say it, she was enjoying herself. When the song was over, the crowd stood up and cheered. A single rose was thrown on stage. Emma picked it up and looked at the man in the front row. Balan clapped his hands and winked at her. Silently telling her, he knew she could do it. The teenager held back her tears of joy and smiled widely as she bowed for the audience.

#balan wonderworld #fanfiction #Emma Cole #Balan

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route22ny · 3 years

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What My Korean Father Taught Me About Defending Myself in America

Born in 1939 during what would be the last years of the Japanese colonial occupation of Korea, my father, Choung Tai Chee, also called Charles or Chuck or Charlie, came to the United States in 1960. He was flashy, cocky, unafraid, it seemed, of anything. Wherever we were in the world, he seemed at home, right up until near the end of his life, when he was hospitalized after a car accident that left him in a coma. Only in that hospital bed, his head shaved for surgery, did he look out of place to me.

A tae kwon do champion by the age of 18 in Korea, he had begun studying martial arts at age 8, eventually teaching them as a way to put himself through graduate school, first in engineering and then oceanography, in Texas, California, and Rhode Island. He loved the teaching. The rising popularity of martial arts in the 1960s in Hollywood meant he made celebrity friends like Frank Sinatra Jr., Paul Lynde, Sal Mineo, and Peter Fonda, who my father said had fixed him up on a date with his sister, Jane, in the days before Barbarella. A favorite photo from his time in Texas shows him flying through the air, a human horseshoe, each of his bare feet breaking a board held shoulder high on each side by his students.

When I complained about my wet boots during the winters growing up in Maine, he told me stories about running barefoot in the snow in Korea to harden his feet for tae kwon do. His answer to many of my childhood complaints was usually that I had to be tougher, stronger, prepared for any attack or disaster. The lesson his generation took from those they lost to the Korean War was that death was always close, and I know now that he was doing all he could to teach me to protect myself. When I cried at the beach at the water’s edge, afraid of the waves, he threw me in. “No son of mine is going to be afraid of the ocean,” he said. When I first started swimming lessons, he told me I had to be a strong swimmer, in case the boat I was on went down, so I could swim to shore. When he taught me to body-surf, he taught me about how to know the approach of an undertow, and how to survive a riptide. When I lacked a competitive streak, he took to racing me at something I loved—swimming underwater while holding my breath. I was an asthmatic child, but soon, intent on beating him, I could swim 50 yards this way at a time.

For all of that, he was an exceedingly gentle father. He took me snorkeling on his back, when I was five, telling me we were playing at being dolphins. There he taught me the names of the fish along the reef where we lived in Guam. He would praise the highlights in my hair, and laugh, calling me “Apollo.” And as for any pressure regarding my future career, he offered something very rare for a Korean man of his generation. “Be whatever you want to be,” he told me. “Just be the best at it that you can possibly be.”

Only when I was older did I understand the warning about being strong enough to swim to shore in another context, when I learned the boat he and his family had fled in from what was about to become North Korea nearly sank in a storm. In Seoul as a child, he scavenged food for his family with his older brother, coming home with bags of rice found on overturned military supply trucks, while his father went to the farms, collecting gleanings. His attempts to teach me to strip a chicken clean of its meat make a different sense now. I had thought of him as an immigrant without thinking about how the Korean War made him one of the dispossessed, almost a refugee, all before he left Korea.

When I began getting into fights as a child in the U.S., he put me into classes in karate and tae kwon do for these same reasons. He loved me and he wanted me to be strong. I just wasn’t sure how I was supposed to take on a whole country.

We moved to Maine in 1973, when I was six years old. My father had taken us back to Korea after I was born, to work for his father, and then moved us around the Pacific—from Seoul to the islands of Truk, Kawaii, and Guam, in his and my mother’s attempts to set up a fisheries company. Maine was his next experiment, and not coincidentally, my mother’s home state. On my first day of the first grade, in the cafeteria, after a morning spent in what seemed like reasonably friendly classes, my troubles began when I went up to take an empty seat at a table and the blond haired, blue-eyed white boy seated there looked up with some alarm and asked me, “Are you a chink?”

“What’s a chink?” I asked, though I knew it wasn’t a compliment. I had never heard this word before.

“A Chinese person. You look like a chink. Is that why your face is so flat?”

This was also the first day I can remember being insulted about my appearance.

“I am not Chinese,” I said that day, naively. In a few years I would learn I was in fact part Chinese, 41 generations back, but at that moment, I tried to explain to him about how I was half Korean, a nationality and situation he had never heard of before. Half of what? And so this was also the first day I had to explain myself to someone who didn’t care, who had already decided against me.

He was a white boy from America, and he was repeating insults that seem to me to have come from a secret book passed out to white children everywhere in this country, telling them to call someone Asian “Chink,” to walk up to them, muttering “Ching-chong, ching-chong.” To sing a song, “My mother’s Chinese, my father’s Japanese, I’m all mixed up,” pulling their eyes first down and then up and then alternating up and down.

I was struck, watching Minari a few months ago, when the film’s Korean immigrant protagonist, David, is asked by a white boy in Arkansas in the 1980s why his face is so flat. “It’s not,” David says, forcefully—so many of us have this memory of someone saying this to us and responding that way. Why did a boy in Arkansas and a boy in Maine, in their small towns thousands of miles apart, before the internet, each know to make this insult?

When I got home from that first day at school, I asked my mother what the word “Chink” meant, and she flinched and covered her mouth in concern.

“Who said that to you?” she asked, and I told her. I don’t remember the conversation that followed, just the swift look of concern on her face. The sense that something had found us.

I was the only Asian-American student at my school in 1973, and the first many of my classmates had ever met. When my brother joined me at school three years later, he was the second. When my sister arrived, four years after him, she was the third. My mother is white, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed American, born in Maine to a settler family. I have six ancestors who fought in the Revolutionary War, but none of them had to fight this. I don’t know how to separate the teasing, harassment, and bullying that marked my 12 years of life there from that first racist welcome. It makes me question whether I really had a “temper” as a child, as I was told, or whether I was merely isolated by racism among racists, afraid and angry?

My father dealt with racism throughout most of his life by acting as if it had never happened—as if admitting it made it more powerful. He knew bullies loved to see their victims react and would tell me to not let what they said upset me. “Why do you care what they think of you?” he would say, and laugh as he clapped me on the shoulder. “They’re all going to work for you someday.”

“Don’t get even, get ahead,” was another of his slogans for me at these times. As if America was a race we were going to win.

Two decades after his death, writing in my diary while on a subway in New York City, I began counting off all of my activities as a child—choir, concert band, swimming, karate and tae kwon do, clarinet, indoor track, downhill and cross country skiing—and I asked myself if my parents were trying to raise Batman. Then I looked down to the insignia on my Batman t-shirt, and I laughed.

These lessons my father gave me—to be the best you can be, to fight off your enemies and defeat them, to swim to safety if the boat sinks, and in general toughen yourself against everything that would harm you—these I had absorbed alongside certain unspoken lessons, taken from observing his life as a Korean immigrant. To have two names, one American, known to the public, and one Korean, known only to a few intimates; to get rid of your accent; and to dress well as a way to keep yourself above suspicion. Did I need to train like a superhero just to be a person in America? Maybe.

But if I thought of superheroes, it was because my father was like one to me, training me to be like him.

One legend I heard about my father when I was growing up is the story of a night he was being held up at gunpoint, while he was unpacking his car. Whoever it was asked him to shut the trunk and turn around and raise his hands in the air. He agreed to, slamming the car trunk down so forcefully, he sank his fingertips into the metal.

By the time he turned around, the would-be stick-up artist was gone.

He would often ask me and my brother to punch him, as hard as we could, in his stomach. He was proud of his abdominal strength—it was like punching a wall. We would shake our hands, howling, and he would laugh and rub our heads. One time he even used it as a gag to stop a bully.

A boy on my street had developed the habit of changing the rules during our games if his team started losing. We had fights over it that could be heard up and down the street, and one day I chased him with a Wiffle bat, him laughing as I ran. My father stepped in the next time he tried to change the rules during a game and prevented it, telling him all games in his yard had to have the same rules at the beginning as the end—you couldn’t change them when you were losing. When the boy got mad, he said, “I bet you want to hit me, you should hit me. You’ll feel better. Hit me right here, in the stomach, as hard as you can.”

The boy hauled off and punched my dad in the stomach. I knew what was coming. The boy went home crying, shaking his hand at the pain. His mom came over and they had a talk. The rule-changing stopped.

I tried teasing my classmates back after being told to by my father. Stand-up as self-defense requires practice, though: During a “Where are you from?” exercise in the second grade, I told my classmates and teacher I had “Made in Korea” stamped on my ass, which elicited shocked laughter and a punishment from my teacher. I remember the glee when I called a classmate an ignoramus, and he didn’t know what it meant—and got angrier and angrier when I wouldn’t tell him, demanding that I explain the insult. When told to go back to where I came from, I said, “You first.”

Increasingly, I just hid, in the library, in books. When given detention, I exulted in the chance to be alone and read. I was an advanced student compared to my classmates, due in part to my mother being a schoolteacher, and I learned to make my intelligence a weapon.

The day several boys held me down on my street and ran their bicycles over my legs, to see if I could take it, as if maybe I wasn’t human, that felt like some new horrible level. I don’t remember how that ended or if I ever told anyone, just the feeling of the bicycle tires rolling over the skin of my legs. The day I bragged about my father being a martial artist to my classmates, they locked me in the bathroom and told me to fight my way out with kung fu, calling me “Hong Kong Phooey,” after the cartoon character, as they held the door shut. This was the fourth grade. After I got out of that bathroom and went home, I told my father about it, and he told me it was time to take tae kwon do. I had to learn to defend myself.

I would never be like him, never break boards like him, but for a while, I tried. I still cherish the day he gave me my first gi and showed me how to tie it. I learned I had a natural flexibility, which meant I could easily kick high, and I took pride in my roundhouse and reverse roundhouse kicks. But after a few years, my father took issue with a story he’d heard about my teacher’s arrogance toward his opponents, and he pulled me out of the classes. “It is very dangerous to teach in that spirit,” he told me. And he said something I would never forget. “The best fighter in tae kwon do never fights,” he said. “He always finds another way.”

I have thought about this for a long time. For the ordinary practitioner, tae kwon do and karate prepare you to go about your life, aware of what to do in case of assault. They offer no guarantee, just chances for preparedness in the face of the violence of others as well as the violence within yourself. At the time I felt my father was describing the responsibility that comes with knowing how to hurt someone, but I came to understand it as a principled if conditional non-violence, which, in this year of quarantine and rising racist violence, is one of the clearest legacies he left to me.

Like many of us, I have been trying to write about these most recent attacks on Asian-Americans, some of them in my old neighborhood in New York, and I keep starting and stopping. How do we protect ourselves and those we love? Can writing do that? I know I learned to use my intelligence as a weapon to keep myself safe from racists, starting as a child, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like enough. The violence is like a puzzle with many moving parts, but the stakes are life and death. “You’re really going to homework your way through this one?” I keep asking myself. The people attacking Asians and Asian Americans now are like the boy I met on my first day in the first grade. They don’t care whether or not we are actually Chinese—the primary experience Asian Americans have in common is mis-identification. The person who gets a patriotic ego boost off of calling me a “chink” isn’t going to check if they’re right about me, and I don’t imagine they’ll stop their fist or their gun if I say, “You’re just doing this because of America’s history of war in Asia,” even though we both know this is true. And so I have been thinking of my father and what he taught me.

The most overt way my father fought racism in front of me involved no fighting at all. He founded a group called the Korean American Friendship Association of Maine, which helped new Korean immigrants move to Maine and find work, community, and housing, along with offering lessons on how to open bank accounts, pay taxes, file immigration paperwork, and get drivers’ licenses. For both of my parents, community organizing, activism, and mutual aid like this were commitments they shared and enjoyed and passed along to us, their children, and this led to much of my own work as an activist, teacher, and writer. I am not my father, but I am much as he made me.

There’s a difference between fighting racists and fighting racism. Where my father stayed silent, I have learned I have to speak out, which has felt, even while writing this, a little like betraying him. And as a biracial gay Korean American man, I don’t experience the same identifications or misidentifications he did. I am mistaken for white, or at least “not Asian,” as often as I’m mistaken for Chinese, and have felt like a secret agent as people speak in front of me about Asians in ways they would not otherwise. I learned most of my adult coping strategies for street violence from queer activist organizations after college.

Even as I write, “I wonder if he ever felt fear living in America,” it feels like a betrayal, especially as he isn’t around for me to ask him. I think again about how my father always made a point of dressing well, for example, but it always felt like more than that. Men wearing suits as a kind of armor, that isn’t so strange. He had his suits made at J. Press, wore handmade English leather shoes—shoes that fit me. I sometimes wear them for special occasions. Among my favorite objects of his is a monogrammed J. Press canvas briefcase, the name “CHEE” in embossed leather between the straps. After his father gave him an Omega Constellation watch when I was born, he eventually acquired others. For a time I thought he did this aspirationally, but most of his family in Korea is like this: Well-dressed, with a preference for tailoring and handmade clothes. All of my memories of my uncles coming from the airport to visit us involve them arriving in their blazers.

The first time I followed my father’s advice to wear a sports jacket when flying, I received a spontaneous upgrade. I didn’t have frequent flyer miles and the person checking me in was not flirting with me either. There was nothing but the moment of grace, and the feeling that my father, from beyond the grave, was making a point as I sat down in my new, larger, more spacious seat. Because I had never tried out this advice while he was alive.

Like much of my father’s advice, it came from his keen awareness of social contexts, and it worked. His wardrobe came from the pleasure of a dare more than a disguise. You don’t acquire a black and gold silk brocade smoking jacket in suburban Maine because you want to fit in with your white neighbors. Sometimes his clothes were a charm offensive, sometimes just a sass. The jacket advice may well have been an anticipation of racist treatment, of a piece with perfecting his English so he had no accent, and raising us to speak only English. My mother spoke more Korean to us as children than he did—a remnant of her time living in Seoul.

Now that I am old enough to choose to learn Korean, I still feel like a child disobeying him, just as I do when I dress too casually, or acknowledge that I’ve experienced racism. I know I am just making different choices, as you do when you are grown, but also, I am stepping out from behind his program to protect myself. I feel the fears he never spoke about, and instead simply addressed with what now look like tactics. At these moments I miss him as much as I ever do, but especially for how I would tell him, this may have protected you. It won’t protect me.

In my kitchen the other day, as I was making coffee, I fell into the ready stance, with my right foot back, left foot forward, and snapped my right leg up and out in a front snap kick. This is the basic first kick you learn in tae kwon do. And you do it again, and again, and again, until it is muscle memory. You move across the room this way and then turn to begin again.

I wasn’t sure if my form was exactly right, but it felt good. Memories came back of the sweaty smell of the practice room, the other students, the mirrors on the walls, the fluorescent lights. All those years ago, I had thought my father had put me in those classes in order to become him, but as I sent my practice kicks through the air, I remembered how even learning them made me feel safer, protected at least by the knowledge that he loved me. I could not have said this at the time, but after those attacks, I had feared I wasn’t strong enough to be his son.

I still fear that. I suppose it drives me, even now. It is dehumanizing to insist on your humanity, even and perhaps especially now, and so I am not doing that here. Each time I’ve tried to write even this, a rage takes over, and then the only thing I want to do with my hands doesn’t involve writing, and I stop. But I know from learning to fight that hitting someone else means using yourself to do it. My father’s advice, about fighting being the last resort, has given me another lesson: You turn yourself into the weapon when you strike someone else—in the end, another way to erase yourself—and so you do that last. In the meantime, you fight that first fight with yourself, for yourself.

You may never be able to protect what you love, but at least you can try. At least you will be ready.

Alexander Chee is most recently the author of the essay collection How to Write an Autobiographical Novel. A novelist and essayist, he teaches at Dartmouth College and lives in Vermont.

#asian-american #anti-asian hate #racism in america #alexander chee #long reads

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hotchgan · 3 years

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The Band

Summery: Aaron asks his father to come and watch his band play.

A/N: Had this idea for a headcannon and decided to make a fanfic of. Credits to @ellyhotchner for helping me with this idea. I also apologize for the band name.

Taglist: @ellyhotchner @unionjackpillow @eleanorbloom

Warnings: Implied/Refrenced Child abuse, child abuse, homophobia

Aaron was in a band. The Southern Street Boys in fact. He joined band when he was a junior in highschool only because his crush asked him to. Connor, his crush, was the leader of the band. He was the main singer. James played the drums and Sam played the paino. All four of them were like a family.

Aaron met Sam and James when he was first joined in the band. Sam was the oldest and was a senior. And James was a sophomore like Connor. Which means Aaron was the youngest in the group. It also mean the three of them like to tease Aaron and his shyness. Connor gave Aaron his first guitar but his father broke it after he got drunk again. When the band found out, they spent all of their savings into buying a new one for Aaron. That's when he knew that they loved him and will do anything for them.

Aaron paced in the living room. The band was having a concert and he wants his father to come but he doesn't know he is still in the band. Soon his father came in with Sean from work. Aaron was jealous of how close his father and Sean is.

"Where's your mother?" His father asks.

"Getting groceries and then she is meeting with some friends", Aaron says. His father nods and goes into the kitchen. Aaron follows him. His father puts Sean on the ground and faces his oldest son.

"What do you want?" His father barks.

"W-what?" Aaron asks, scared that his father raised his voice. This usually means his father was ready to beat him up in the basement.

"You keep following me", His father replies. Aaron makes a silent oh.

"Well I was wondering if ...", Aaron starts saying. He wonders if he should drop the conversation and never tell him about the band.

"Wondering what?" Aaron's father snaps.

"Can you come to my band's concert tonight?" Aaron asks quickly. His father stares at him for a second.

"You're still in that band? I told you to quit?" His father says. Aaron gulps silently.

"Big brother is in a band?" Sean asks excitedly. They both looks at Sean who was listening to them both the whole time.

"Yeah", Aaron says, kneeling down to be the same height as Sean.

"Can we see Aar be in a band?" Sean asks his father. Aaron looks at his father with pleading eyes. His father sighs.

"Fine, we can go", his father says.

"Yay!" Sean says. Aaron sighs. He smiles at his father who just scowls at him.

"When's the concert?" Aaron's father asks.

"At eight but I have to be there by seven", Aaron replies.

"Ok, be ready by then", his father says. Aaron nods and goes to his room. All he has to do is not screw up for the rest of the day.

Soon it was seven in the night and Aaron was ready to go. He was wearing a leather jacket with ripped jean and his band's t-shirt. Sean And his father was also ready.

His father drove them all to the band where there is also many people waiting. His father parks in the back of the school where the band members are supposed to go. All three of them go into the back stage where there is the band getting ready to go on stage.

"Aar!" Connor yells as he walks towards Aaron. He looks at the tall man with piercing blue eyes.

"And you must be Aaron's father. Nice to meet you, Mr. Hotchner", Connor says as he puts his hand out to shake.

"Nice to meet you too ...", his father replies, shaking Connor's hand.

"Connor, James is over by the drums and Sam is the one talking with out music teacher", Connor introduces the band. His father hums looking at the band. Connor has blonde hair with blue eyes, James has light brown hair with brown eyes and Sam has reddish-brown hair with green eyes.

"Anyways, our choir teacher can lead you to the waiting room. We will be on stage, shortly", Connor says to Aaron's father. His father and Sean followed the choir teacher outside where the seats are. Aaron sighs and Connor looks st him sadly. Connor was the only one on the band who knew what exactly his father does to Aaron.

"Don't worry, even if he doesn't approve, you're still a part of our family", Connor says, reassuring him. Aaron nods, still not looking at Connor. Connor wraps his arms around him and gives him a hug. Aaron flinches but hugs him back. Soon it was time for them to play.

Aaron's father sits next to a man with a clipboard. The man nods to him and Aaron's father nods back. After a couple of minutes, it was time for the Southern Street Boys to play. They were playing an original song called "Yellow Sunflowers". Aaron's father starts unconsciously tapping his foot on the ground and Sean looks at his brother with wide eyes.

"Is that you're son?" The man next to Aaron's father asks. He points to Aaron who is playing the guitar.

"Uh yeah", Aaron's father replies.

"I'm Nick Joneson of Goerge Washington University", the man introduces himself.

"Michael Hotchner", Aaron's father says. They both shake each other hands.

"What's a guy like you doing here?" Michael asks, curiously.

"Just finding students with talent to hand out scholarships to", Nick says casually.

"And so far, your son is on the top of my list", Nick adds. Michael stares at him.

"Wait, my son? The one playing the guitar?" Michaels asks to make sure he is talking about Aaron.

"Yup, he is one talented kid. You should be proud", Nick says. Michael doesn't say anything and looks at his son. He's right, he should be proud of Aaron.

Ten minutes past and the concert is over. Sean clapped the loudest and Michael surprisingly clapped too. He was good at the guitar and he already has a scholarship as a junior. He was actually impressed. He almost regrets smashing his guitar and forcing his son to quit.

Aaron and the band run to the back stage. They were all laughing at all the applause the audience gave them.

"That was amazing!" James says.

"That was the biggest applause we got!" Sam says agreeing with James.

"Now your dad can't let you out of the band", Connor says to Aaron. Aaron blushes.

"Yeah! The guitar riff you did at the end was super cool!" James compliments Aaron.

"Yeah, good job kid", Sam says ruffling Aaron's hair. Aaron blushes at the praise. Soon James and Sam's parents came and it was just the both of them. They both say down in the couch waiting for their family. parents came and it was just the both of them. They both sit down in the couch waiting for their family.

"Hey, can I tell you a secret?" Connor asks to Aaron.

"Sure", Aaron replies. Connor leans in and kisses Aaron. Aaron freezes but then kisses him back. They both kiss each other softly before Aaron pulling back.

"Wait... what's the secret?" Aaron asks. Connor looks at him and then laughs. Aaron laughs back.

"The secret is that I want to be your boyfriend", Connor says to Aaron. Aaron blushes.

"Me too", Aaron replies. They both kiss again but was interrupted by Aaron's father. Aaron freezes, realizing that his father saw them. Connor looks at him sadly and tries to say something but Aaron's father pulled Aaron away from him. Soon when they were out of anyone's view, Aaron's father grabs his son's hair.

"What the hell were you doing?" His father barks at him. Aaron can feel tears forming in his eyes.

"I-I'm sorry", Aaron says to his father. Michael scoffs at him.

"Didn't look like you were sorry. Maybe I should sent you to boarding school, to get you straighten up", Michael threatens. Aaron's eyes widen in fear.

"N-no, please papa. I'll do anything. I'll go do the chores for a year. You can hit me whenever you want but please not there", Aaron pleads at his father. Suddenly, Michael hits him across the face. Aaron winces in pain. Michael grabs his hair again making him face his father.

"I'll be nice to you. You will do whatever I say for the rest of your life. You will take every hit you deserve and you won't cry like a pathetic baby. But as soon as you graduate this year, I'm sending you to a summer program at the boarding school. Deal?" Michael snarls. Aaron looks at him knowing that he doesn't have a choice.

"D-deal", Aaron stammers. His father hits him again and bruises his lip.

"You fell on the ground that's why you bruised your lip", Michael says making up an excuse for Aaron to use. Aaron nods and they both walk to where Sean is and go back in the car. But the whole time, Aaron can't stop thinking how Connor wants to be his boyfriend. Despite the hits he received from his father, Aaron smiled because Connor wanted to be his.

#aaron hotch hotchner #sean hotchner #Michael Hotchner #Teen!Hotch #Hotch as a teen #implied/reference child abuse #Tw child abuse #Tw homophobia #aaron hotchner #hotch

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dragons-and-yellow-roses · 3 years

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He was in community choir and I had come to their Christmas concert. That whole night we had subtly hinted towards kissing, but he knew it was my first kiss and he wanted to make sure I was ready.

He looked gorgeous that night, in a tight black dress and bright red lipstick.

When we stepped outside after the concert it was snowing, fresh and fluffy and gentle. The kind of snow where perfect flakes rest gently on top of your head and you can see each beautiful design.

We stopped under a street lamp and looked into each other's eyes. We knew it, we felt it. It was right.

We kissed in the light of the lamp, and for a second the world disappeared.

---

Weeks later it was the night of our school Christmas concert. He and I had stayed late to clean up, then left together. I went to my house first and he continued towards his. It was snowing again, beautiful snow, but it was much colder than that first night. So of course I wanted ice cream.

I left my house and headed towards the local corner store when I saw him, still on his way home. I decided to surprise him, so I didn't shout. I just ran towards him to catch up.

Imagine you're walking home late at night and suddenly you hear someone running towards you.

He was not a fan, but he soon forgave me when I asked him to go to the store with me.

We treasured the domestic things to an odd extent,and this was the first time we had gone shopping together. The store was empty because of the weather and because it was forty five minutes until closing. I grabbed my ice cream, chocolate with brownie pieces. He bought chopped mango and pineapple. That was our personalities right there.

This time he actually went home and so did I, and I didn't ambush him again as he went.

---

Our school choir caroled in the Christmas parade. All of us bundled in our warmest gear being carried in a trailer attached to a choir parent's truck. After the concert we stopped for pizza and soda (and go warm up). He and I left the party together and I walked him to his house.

He was the type of person to walk in the middle of the street while I was cautious, trying to get him to join me on the sidewalk. Eventually I gave in and joined him in the road. We kissed in the middle of the street under the snow. I'm surprised we didn't get hit.

---

I traded with one of my friends to get him for Secret Santa. He's Wiccan, so I did all sorts of research on Yule to figure out what I could do for him that wouldn't be so focused on Christmas but still in the holiday spirit. I ended up getting him a necklace with snowflake obsidian, which helps with calming and soothing. He had bad anxiety, so I thought snowflake obsidian could work with the winter spirit as well as help him.

He loved it, and wore it all the time.

---

We had a competition to see who would propose first. We didn't plan on getting married for a long long time, but it was nice to think that someday we would. We decided that we liked the idea of promise rings though, so I knelt down in front of him and he said "No! No, you're not allowed to do this first!" I got up to show him that it was only a promise ring, and he happily accepted. He had given me a promise ring the week before, so I guess he won that one.

---

The day we started dating was... Very shy, is the best way I can describe it.

I had confessed my crush to someone else in band, and that asshole promptly turned around and told my future boyfriend. We didn't talk about it then, but after band practice had ended he grabbed my arm and pulled me to a secluded hallway. We were both too shy to say much, and then his ride came so he had to leave.

I was on my way to the corner store to get something to stress eat, because at that point I still had a huge problem with stress eating, when I got a call from him. The person that answered the phone was our mutual friend, and she served as an interpreter because he was still too shy to say much, but our interpreter knew him well enough to decipher his noises.

Finally she got sick of it and decided to pick me up and bring us both to the local McDonald's. She sat us down and demanded we act like adults, as much like adults as a sixteen and seventeen year old could be, and talk to each other.

It was a lot of shy glances until I finally started saying words, real words, and then the dam broke open. There, in that booth in McDonald's at 9pm, we started dating.

---

Eight months later I broke up with him because I had fallen in love with someone new, and I knew it wasn't fair to keep going if I couldn't fully be with him.

I don't know if I regret it.

I think it's easy to look back at these good memories and miss our relationship. There are definitely things to miss. He had been my best friend for years before we started dating, and then with one phone call that was the end.

Months later he called me again from college, out of the blue. We started talking and it felt... It felt like nothing had changed. We considered starting to date again, tentatively.

One night there was Bands-giving, which was a party and potluck for all of the music students. He hadn't told me he was coming but I figured he'd just forgotten to mention it.

I sat down next to him with my friend Amber and tried to hold a conversation. He only talked to Amber.

I thought maybe he was just shy, so I approached him more one-on-one. He fully ignored me and gave me the silent treatment for the rest of the night.

He left early and so did I, but separately this time. He texted me afterwards and said that we shouldn't get back together. I said I agree, but the last week had been nice and I was hoping we could be friends again. I had missed him a lot. He said of course! And he never spoke to me again.

I still miss him, at least a little.

#every year around this time i start to miss him #two years ago i started to miss him and then a few days later he called me #last year i missed him but he didnt call #this year im starting to miss him again #missing him hurts way down in my gut #i might try to reach out #i dont know though #it hurt that night that he ignored me #i dont want to lose him again #we were so close for so long...#and then we werent #its 2:30 am so maybe i shouldnt try to reach out to my ex #or maybe its the perfect time to reach out to my ex #its probably the former #but i still might try #not sure yet

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patandpran · 4 years

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The Trials and Tribulations of Parenthood - An ohmxfong ficlet

Ever wonder what Ohm and Fong might be like as parents? This is for the anon that sent me a lovely prompt with this exact idea a few days ago. So if you are into family shenanigans, read along!

I will still give credit to @yangkoogan @earthfluuke @gaysarawat for making this ghostship sail in my head!

“Ohm! You can’t just let her run around without pants on! The neighbours might see and think we’re bad parents.”

Fong frowned as he watched their daughter, Joy, squeal as she ran around their backyard with a shirt and only a diaper on. Ohm was running around chasing her as Fong watched from the back porch, waving a spatula in protest.

Ohm scooped Joy up into his arms and began to throw her into the air, “Joy, what do you think? Do you need to wear pants to be happy?”

“NOOOOOO!” Joy cried out as she was tossed up and down, waving her arms as if she were on a rollercoaster having the time of her life.

“See, babe, I think you should think more like Joy and I.” Ohm called out to Fong.

Fong rolled his eyes fondly as Ohm continued to play with their daughter. There was no point in trying to make something different if both Ohm and Joy were on the same side so Fong decided to give up the battle.

“It hurts, Papa!”

Ohm was not good with bandaids and he was even worse with blood. He felt himself battling with consciousness as he looked down at the scrape on his son’s knee. Where the hell was Fong when he needed him?

“Don’t worry. Papa’s gonna fix it.” Ohm tried desperately to keep his composure as he held Theo’s knee in place.

“Daddy usually cleans it first.” Theo explained, looking up at Ohm with an unimpressed expression which made Ohm feel even more inept.

Ohm stood to his feet a bit too quickly and felt himself sway. If he wasn’t going to faint before, now he definitely was going to. But before he could falter any more, Ohm felt arms steadying him and looked up to see Fong staring at him with a worried look.

“I’m okay.” Ohm assured Fong.

Fong whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll take it from here. I know how you feel about blood…”

Ohm watched as Fong knelt down toward their son. Joy came running into the kitchen to see what the ruckus was and slipped her hand into Ohm’s to comfort him. Joy looked up at Ohm and shared, “Don’t worry, Papa. Daddy’s got it. He’s practically a doctor.”

“Theo…. oh dear, little man. What adventure caused all this craziness?” Fong inquired as he inspected the scrape.

“Papa tried to help me to fly to the moon on the trampoline.” Theo told the story of the accident. “My rocket went out of orbit and well… there was a crash landing.”

Joy’s eyes widened at the story and Ohm winced slightly, knowing he would get an earful from Fong later that evening but was surprised he didn’t get a dirty look from Fong right then and there. Ohm and Joy observed as Fong skillfully and calmly cleaned up and dressed the wound and helped their son back up to his feet.

“As good as ever.” Fong announced, standing up to his feet. “Looks like the rocket is ready to go explore space again!”

“But beware of the aliens!” Joy screamed at the top of her lungs and chased Theo outside to the backyard.

“Thanks for that.” Ohm muttered, embarrassed by the way he had handled the situation.

Fong laced an arm around Ohm and pulled him close. “Anytime, hon.”

“What if I slip and fall on my face and everybody laughs at me?”

It was Joy’s first choir concert and she was currently clinging onto Ohm’s leg and refusing to let go. Theo was snuggled up in Fong’s arms and fast asleep after a long play at preschool. Fong was usually the expert on helping their children calm down and with how Joy’s lower lip was beginning to wobble, they were about five seconds from a complete meltdown right then and there.

Ohm quickly guided Joy away from the rest of the crowd and found some shade under a tree near the concert venue. Fong followed slowly but had to move at a slower pace because he did not want to wake Theo. Ohm pulled Joy into his lap and hugged her tightly.

“You know, no matter what ends up happening, Daddy, Papa and Theo are always proud of you.” Ohm explained. “If you decide to do the concert, we will be proud of you for doing it but if you decide not to, we will be proud of you for knowing what is best for you. That takes even more than courage than doing things just because you worry what others might think.”

“Courage.” Joy repeated the word as she had never heard it before. “What does that mean, Papa?”

Ohm thought for a moment before responding, a tactic that he had learned from Fong, especially when communicating with their children. “It’s like bravery. When you feel scared or worried to do something, sometimes you need to use courage to do that thing.”

“I like that.” Joy answered and pushed off of Ohm’s lap and turned toward him. “I will use COURAGE to get onstage today.”

“That’s a great word, Joy!” Fong called over in agreement before realizing that his son was still asleep on his shoulder. He winced slightly but Theo remained completely out.

Ohm laughed at the interaction and grinned at his daughter, standing up to his feet as well. “You’re kind of like a superhero, Joy.”

“I AM a superhero, Papa.” Joy placed her hands on her hips proudly. “I am a SINGING SUPERHERO!”

With that, Joy skipped away to meet up with the rest of her class. Fong gave Ohm a thumbs up of approval and they both walked in with the rest of the viewers to watch their daughter light up the stage.

There was cake batter and extra ingredients splattered from the ceiling to the floor. Fong and Ohm did not recall who thought it was a good idea to bake cookies as a present for Uncle Tine’s birthday but with a three year old and a five year old, they should have seen the impending disaster.

“IT’S LIKE A SLIP AND SLIDE!” Theo cried out and was about to launch himself across the linoleum floor that was slick with spilt ingredients.

Before he could, Ohm snatched him up and threw him up over his shoulder so that Theo would not be able to try his brilliant idea again. Fong was trying to clean up some of the fallen ingredients with a rag but his daughter had other ideas about the efficiency of their ‘bakery’.

“I’m going to try it again.” Joy explained as she reached to turn on the electric mixer again which is how this had all gone so wrong in the first place. “Maybe it just needs to be faster so I’ll turn it up to 11!”

“Joy, I asked you to keep it off for now.” Fong grumbled. He felt rather disappointed in himself. He was usually so good at keeping the kid’s activities mostly mess-free but when Joy suggested a homemade present for their friend, he thought it was a great idea.

“Uncle Wat loves cookies.” Joy crossed her arms and put on a big pout. “How are we going to get him to sing us a song if we don’t bring him cookies?”

“It’s Uncle Tine’s birthday, not Uncle Wat’s.” Ohm reminded his daughter and finally set Theo down on the couch which he hoped was far enough to deter his son from attempting a crash landing again.

“WHO DOESN’T LIKE COOKIES?” Joy protested and reached for the controls of the mixer again.

Both Fong and Ohm raced to intercept their daughter but ended up colliding instead, resulting in a cloud of flour rising to the ceiling and their heads to feel like they’d both ran into a brick wall. Theo and Joy gasped at the collision and quickly approached to inspect their fathers who looked stunned at first but quickly dissolved into a fit of laugher.

Realizing that Fong and Ohm were okay, Theo grabbed a clump of fallen batter and made it into a ball, “FOOD FIGHT!”

The battle had begun before Fong could even try to put a stop to it. Ohm and Joy seemed like they were a tag team so Fong jumped to his feet to join the melee, launching into the disarray with complete abandon. The mess could always be cleaned up later but this memory they were making as a family was much more lasting.

Fong and Ohm looked at each directly in the eyes during a reprieve in the battle and wondered how exactly they had gotten themselves into such a mess. But to them, it was worth it.

“The gremlins are both under the covers and seemingly passed out.”

Ohm launched himself into the bed. It had always been the arrangement since they first adopted Joy and Theo as a sibling pair all those years ago to take one evening off and one evening on for the bedtime routine so that their significant other could get some reading in or just generally relax.

“Perfect.” Fong turned to see Ohm was now inches for his face.

Fong dropped a kiss on Ohm’s lips and Ohm wrapped his arms around Fong to pull his significant other even closer. Fong rested his head on Ohm’s chest and sighed happily. Not all days went as smoothly as this one had but as long as they were together, Ohm and Fong were going to navigate this family business to the best of their abilities.

“Do you think we’re good parents?” Fong wondered, ever the worrier.

“I think we’re doing the best for our kids.” Ohm answered, press his lips to the top of Fong’s head in a gesture that he hoped made Fong feel as comforted and loved as he deserved to feel. “And that’s all that really matters.”

“It’s just hard when it gets too much, y’know?” Fong muttered, his mind spinning in circles. “I always look back and wonder if I said or did the wrong thing… like, will they remember how I yelled at them over clogging the toilet with a toy car? Or will they remember when we went for that family picnic where we actually managed to all get along for a whole afternoon?”

Ohm took a moment to collect his thoughts before responding, “They might not always remember the peaceful or quiet moments but they will always remember how being a part of our family feels. The love we all give each other, the support. That’s what family means.”

Fong wondered if he was the only one who ever saw this wise side of Ohm as Ohm tended to be the gregarious and goofy foil to Fong’s serious and practical one. That was what made them work together so well, as life partners and as parents. They balanced each other out and even when things were tough, they found a way back to where they started which is what made Fong realize that there no such thing as perfect parenting but what really mattered was the effort and love you put into every interaction with not only you children but your partner as well.

“Thanks, hon.” Fong shared and looked up at Ohm before snuggling once again into Ohm’s chest where he always found himself the most comfortable. “You always know how to put things into perspective in a way that doesn’t make me feel like a crazy person.”

“You’re not crazy.” Ohm ran his hand through Fong’s hair gently. “You just care so much that it sometimes gets in the way of you being able to see the whole picture. The whole picture being that, we are awesome together which makes us kick-ass parents.”

“We do, don’t we?” Fong pushed himself up from Ohm’s chest to a seated position so that he was facing Ohm.

“We sure do.” Ohm tackled Fong and pressed a full on attack of kisses to Fong’s mouth.

While they were never perfect, Ohm and Fong were just enough of a dynamic duo to make the family work, even if they didn’t get it 100% every time.

#ohmfong #2gether #still 2gether #ohm x fong #gmmtv #2gether fanfic #thai bl #my writing

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khangowrites · 3 years

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Is it a Complaint Essay or is the Workplace Unsuitable?

Ah, what am I writing today? Oh, well I suppose it’s almost 12am. Seems like a good a time as any. I wanted to just jot down a few re-occurring experiences I’ve had in the workplace and sometimes in other social spaces, and attempt to analyze them.

CW: mild mentions of abuse and bodily ailments.

A bit of forward: I tend to mask myself heavily whenever I am in any social situation; whether it be at work, at home, with friends or online (although I’m getting better at being myself on Discord at least. I owe a lot to my friends who accept me and whom I care so much about.) What this means is I often plan out what I’m needed to say in advance of a situation. I have an arsenal of about 5 minutes of small talk before I tank and several small greetings/placations I can cycle through on any given day if I’m not overloaded. I also limit my natural inclination to movement.

It’s called unprofessional/unsightly to sit with your legs folded under you, or to sway and shake your arms and legs back and forth in time to music in your head. But it’s okay if you tap your pencil. Everyone does that.

I have to wonder how noticeable my ‘masked’ self is. How real or fake it appears.

There have been a few trends I’ve seen with the way people treat me as an employee in the time I’ve been in the workforce. For clarity, I am a 23 year old 5’1” AFAB person with a face that looks like it stopped aging when I was 12. I’m non-binary, but I’ve seen that many have a hard time using a different pronoun for me because I look ‘so feminine’. I had one old man repeatedly tell me that my body was too pretty and that I shouldn’t hide it and ‘pretend’ to be something else. I was and still am quite unsettled and disgusted by that comment.

I haven’t used my full preferred pronouns at work simply based in fear of being fired or discriminated against further. Same thing at home- I haven’t told all my family out of fear. I may look back on this at some future date where I fully respect myself and I’m confident. I look forward to that day.

Oh, and I’m autistic.

Perhaps it is one of these things or all of them that cause people to treat me certain ways. I’d like to find out.

I worked outdoors at an Orchard for a season. They called me Cinderella because of the way I looked when I cleaned. They gave employees gloves and heaters. Only not me. When I asked, I was given a broken one and told to fix it. A coworker who had intellectual disabilities and poor eyesight was not offered a heater at all. I did not renew for the next season. Kim and I stayed in touch though.

I worked next at a gift shop at a historical site. I loved the history and the old buildings, but the cashier work was admittedly difficult. Most of the employees were kind, retired old ladies who treated me gently, like a child. Sometimes too much like a child. The assistant manager seemed wary of me, and she often avoided me. I don’t know why. I’m not good with eye contact, and I always fear that people will mistake my zoning out as being creepy or disrespectful; maybe it was that. She never brought her kids with her on days I worked.

The head manager was courteous, but always called me Special. We had an older man work in the last 2 years I was there who had a strong inclination to associate with the children at the shop, and in turn, me as well. He would always want a hug or pat me on the back, but ignored the other workers. I told the managers my uncomfortable feelings about him, but it went mostly unnoticed.

When it was found that I was decent with computers, I was tasked with entering jewelry into the system and creating labels with number associations. I enjoyed it, and they promised me a decent raise. My pay was raised a dollar several weeks later, and I found myself being tasked with more and more computer work, to the point of becoming an office manager myself, earning a grand total of 9 dollars an hour while my counterpart who started a year earlier owned a home on the same work.

I left that job after 4 years to be the music director at a local church. I love music and was excited. Maybe too excited. I developed acid re-flux and was hospitalized the week before my start day due to a panic attack. I realize now it was from stress. I also had an ovarian cyst removed a year later- it took up my entire pelvis and its formation was also attributed to stress. I’ve since been diagnosed with generalized anxiety, and I continue to have ever changing digestive issues, muscle problems and panic attacks.

After realizing I was autistic and also non-binary, so much of the stress of life started to make sense. The past few months I have been making life changes, and working towards finding a workplace that is accommodating and safe for me. My stress has lessened.

I worked at the church for 2 years. My last day is actually at the end of this month. As is the trend, I was not treated with respect when it came to my job. My pastor started choosing the hymns over me, and would make comments about me during services. His favorite was to say that my music made him fall asleep, and wait for laughter from the congregation. He had no musical knowledge, and forced me to play every song as fast as I possibly could. He didn’t believe I could do my job. Any attempts at mutual work failed to manifest. I unfortunately was groomed by a member of the hiring committee there as well, a type of abuse I didn’t even realize I had fallen into until several months after it was too late.

I currently work at a high school as a choir accompanist. I use she/they pronouns there, but no one uses they and I’m too worried to be fully they like I am outside of work. I am wary of soiling my relationship with the director further. She’s quite religious in the ‘gays don’t have rights’ way, so I have my fears.

The director is kind, but sees me as this innocent child that happens to have natural piano abilities, and the mutual respect that I’ve come to dream of just isn’t there again.

The director has the key to the doors and lets students in without fail, but conveniently forgets to let me in almost every day. At one time, I was in physical therapy and had a hard time standing and walking for any period of time. I almost went home because she didn’t answer any communication, class started 20 minutes previously, and it was 90 degrees outside and I needed to sit down because my legs were cramping. She plans the music weeks in advance, but doesn’t give them to me until the day the students get it, despite my repeated asking for time to prepare.

One day I was on zoom and she and the student teacher greeted me and then ignored my presence and played the piano herself for class. She struggled with the parts and commented to the choir that, “wow, Ms. Khango is actually pretty dang good at this- that little girl can play!”, but didn’t listen to me when I offered to play. I left the zoom after an hour.

The online students seemed to share my surprise at least, and I am grateful to them. They kept me grounded and reminded me that I matter and should have the same respect as everyone else in the room, zoom or not. They talk to me about not being heard and their chats not being read during class. It bothered me, too. The next week I brought it up to her in the form of making sure the zoom students were heard and she quickly dismissed it, like it was a puff of smoke. The students online now ask me questions directly and I relay them. It’s met with annoyance by the director.

They have voices too.

One of the scariest moments of my life was last week- I wore my ‘disability rights are human rights’ shirt to school. (Okay, maybe not scary to some, but it very much was for me.) After class, one of the students came to me and asked if I could help him find a way for his grandfather to get a seat at the concert, as he was disabled and he didn’t know how to proceed.

It filled me with joy to help him, and it filled me with rage when the teachers asked if his grandpa could just get out of the wheelchair instead.

My overall conclusion to all of these things is that people simply don’t understand, or don’t want to because it makes their lives harder.

Is discrimination and ignorance really easier than respecting people?

I’m not sure if this is all just one big complaint essay. I guess it is. What I needed to do was write it all out. All the things that make me uneasy or feel like lesser of a person. And I wanted to know why.

I note that at every job I am perceived as a child, or as someone naïve. I am not treated the same as another adult employee. I was ostracized for my way of moving and talking. Taken advantage of. My needs were not accommodated.

Even now, I feel guilt for writing this, like I’m just playing the victim for attention or something.

I want to be strong enough to stand up to it and ask to be treated with respect and have it follow through.

I want to unmask myself more and let myself move and talk naturally, and use my real pronouns.

My respect for myself and for others must become a powerful force.

My friends on discord- my real, genuine friends, have become monumental in my life. Most of my life I did not have true friends. Without them and their unconditional love and support, I would not be where I am right now. We are all equals. I want to embody that strong respect and bring it to others.

It’s getting late. 1 a.m. now. Well, I have tomorrow. Plenty of time for Star Trek.

#workplace problems #actuallyautistic #essay #nonbinary #figuring out life

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nymphilily · 3 years

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Demon Brothers As Stuff I Did In Band/Choir

I’m not an outspoken person so I don’t have enough Crazy Band or Crazy Choir Stories to make separate posts so I have to combine them

Lucifer: Signed a petition with some classmates to get my 8th Grade Band Director fired. Whether or not she knew about the petition remains a mystery to this day, but we do know that it failed because she still had her job up until the school was closed the next year

Mammon: Bought my 5th Grade Band Director a Mountain Dew during every Trumpet Section practice in the hopes of raising his opinion of me to let me switch over to the Horn when I entered Middle School. Instead I was chosen for the 6th Grade Honor Band

Leviathan: Rewatched the latest episode of Daiya no Ace that came out at the time while on the bus to a Choir competition to kill time before heading inside the building, a friend who was sitting in the seat in front of me looked over the seat and asked very VERY loudly why I was watching Hentai. I never said anything in rebuttal

Satan: Scared the living daylights out of some girls in the bathroom of the local theater during a district wide performance, but I can’t remember if it was for Band or Choir. For some reason, the lights in the bathroom in the lower waiting area where everyone usually got ready hadn’t been turned on. I had finished getting ready when some girls from a different school had come down to get ready as well. One of them had commented on how it was “dark as hell” in the bathroom, so I hid right by the door, just out a sight and when they grew closer I popped out from where I was hiding and said "Welcome to hell!" The girl and her friend screamed, I laughed and apologized for scaring them, they said it was okay and we all moved on with our day

Asmodeus: Wore heeled boots to marching practice during 9th Grade because I had bore a hole through the bottom of my sneakers and I didn’t want to tell my mom about it. And to anyone wondering, yes I was completely fine, I walk on my tiptoes a lot so this was nothing new to me

Beelzebub: Walked all the way through two parking lots to reach the Wal-mart by the shopping district we stopped at for lunch after a joint Choir practice with all the public schools in the area just to get something to eat since I only had 10 USD on me, and I knew that Wal-Mart has premade food I could get for cheap

Belphegor: Accidently locked my knees during a Choir Concert and fell face first onto the gym floor in the middle of our performance. I’m pretty sure I blacked out from the impact because the next thing I remember is being in the vice principle’s office trying to get in contact with a family member to pick me up and take me home because of course this was the ONE performance my mom didn’t attend. In the end, I had to walk home (lesson of the day kids is don’t lock your knees)

#[ Drops this and runs ]#Obey Me #Obey Me: Shall We Date #Obey Me Lucifer #Obey Me Mammon #Obey Me Leviathan #Obey Me Satan #Obey Me Asmodeus #Obey Me Beelzebub #Obey Me Belphegor

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averykedavra · 4 years

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Leap in the Dark

(This is another crosspost from my Ao3 account! You can find it here! It’s partly based on personal experience, because concerts are stupid and dysphoria is even stupider and I want to project onto my babies for some second-hand comfort and satisfaction. Like a normal well-adjusted human would.I don't think I'll return to this exact AU, but if you'd like to explore this storyline or some of these ideas, be my guest! Title comes from In the Dark by Anna Blue and Damien Dawn.)

Summary: Virgil isn't the mood to make friends. He's trying not to panic and/or cry over the band concert.

Then a classmate asks him to introduce the band. Which involves speaking. Onstage. In front of literally everyone. Yeah, nobody's getting him in front of that microphone.

But if he doesn’t, Logan has to. And Logan’s also not eager to be seen.

Pairings: platonic Analogical, could be interpreted as romantic. Implied past Anxeit (in like one line, though.)

Warnings: dysphoria, anxiety, self-deprecation, a borderline panic attack, very minor self-harm, and one mention of making out.

Word count: 2678

Virgil Acevedo regretted every single decision he had ever made. He’d tried to do his best at life, and since he was still alive after fourteen-plus years of existence, he had thought he’d done okay. Now he realized every choice that brought him here was a wrong one. He had created his own personal hell through a combination of hubris, naivete, and choosing Band back in sixth grade.

Now he sat in the front of the audience, surrounded by the entire flute section, who were extremely chatty girls. He felt a phone flash behind him and winced. Even though he knew it was another selfie, Virgil hated photos.

He hated a lot of things. Anything that put the spotlight on him. Virgil Acevedo liked to lurk in the background. Performing was not his idea of fun.

Yet here he was.

Clenching a silvery flute, his knees knocking together and his fingers shaking, watching the terrible orchestra play their terrible pieces and dreading the moment those flooding stage lights would illuminate him.

Yeah, logically, he knew nobody would look at him. He wasn’t exactly the most popular kid in the school. And his mom had a late shift and couldn’t make it, thank god. But what if? What if someone just happened to glance in his direction? And they would see a skinny, sweaty boy with floppy black hair he’d tried to comb—still slightly purple from that dye the bottle said would have washed out by now. Playing a flute in a section full of girls, two seats from last chair, barely fumbling through the pieces. Wearing a too-small shirt and a pair of old black sneakers.

Virgil shuddered at the thought.

The orchestra finally screeched their way to a halt. Now someone was introducing the chorus. Roman Prince from Spanish class. He had way too much enthusiasm for the time at hand. He even cracked a terrible pun, which Virgil knew wasn’t in the script, because Roman looked away from the small paper in his hand before telling it. Only one person in the choir laughed. Patton from Biology. Everyone else glared at Patton, who looked unperturbed.

Virgil shifted slightly as the choir broke into song. They sounded truly hideous. Not that his flute-playing was anything stellar, either. But at least he could hide behind the rest of the band. Nobody heard the flutes.

Only a few more songs and Virgil would be up there. Did he remember the fingering for the first piece? What about the second? Did he still have his music? What if it all fell out of his folder? What if he bumped into the girl next to him and she hated him forever and—

Virgil closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He was spiraling again. It would be fine. It would be fine! Just three songs, barely ten minutes long, and it would be over. He’d never have to do this again.

Virgil looked down and realized his hand was clenched into a fist, nails digging into his palm. He slowly uncurled it. Four red crescents marked where the nails had struck the skin. Virgil winced at the sting and rubbed at the marks, feeling his palms get sweatier as the chorus neared their close. Great—sweaty hands. Exactly what he needed to play the flute.

Someone tapped Virgil on the shoulder, and he almost screamed. Thankfully, he muffled his shout before it left his mouth. Turning around, he squinted towards the back of the auditorium to see who had tapped him.

It was a boy Virgil recognized from History class. He had dark hair and a sharp face, accentuated even more by his black-framed glasses and the honest-to-goodness tie he was wearing around his neck. Clearly a nerd of the highest proportions. What was his name again? Logan—Logan.

And now Logan was looking at him expectantly, oh god had Virgil forgotten something was he supposed to say something Logan probably thought he was so weird—he needed to be nice and smart and say something that would make Logan forgive him.

“What?” Virgil hissed.

Well. So much for that.

Logan blinked at the harshness in Virgil’s tone, but he didn’t immediately turn away. “Sorry to bother you, but do you have any interest in introducing the band?”

It was Virgil’s turn to blink. “What?” he repeated.

“Well, I was chosen, but would you like to say this speech instead of me?” Logan held out a small white paper. “It is quite short. You just stand up before our song and greet the audience.”

Virgil looked from the paper to Logan’s face. Logan looked serious and sincere, which ruled out the possibility of a prank.

“You…want me to…talk to them?”

Logan pressed his lips together. “Of course, if the idea is uncomfortable to you, you are under no obligation to fulfill my request. It is simply a suggestion.”

The boy talked like a dictionary! Virgil’s mouth twitched in both humor and gratitude. Logan may have been overly formal, but he was also being pretty nice.

Which meant he wanted something. Of course he did. He wouldn’t just ask Virgil about this unprompted. Virgil didn’t exactly have a reputation for being approachable, with his perpetual scowl, large headphones, and baggy purple sweatshirt.

“Why me?” Virgil blurted out before he could stop himself.

“I beg your pardon?”

It was too late to back out now. “Why are you asking me?” Virgil said. “I mean, people don’t usually talk to me, and you seem smart so you should know not to talk to me, and I’m still confused why you want me to do the script especially since I’m…not good at that,” he finished lamely.

Logan tilted his head. “I asked you because you are nearby, and because I know you to some extent. We are in History together. You ask good questions in History.”

Virgil smirked. “You know all the answers, though.”

“Hardly.” The barest flash of a smile lit up Logan’s face. “I just have a tendency to share them more than other people might deem wise.”

Virgil snorted, twisting around in his chair so he could talk more. He certainly needed a distraction at the moment, and Logan’s blunt way of speech was refreshing. No double meanings or tricks, no hidden feelings or blatant falsehoods like with…like with other people. Other non-specific people who definitely weren’t Virgil’s ex, definitely not, no.

“So…I just go up there and read off the script?” Virgil asked. Just the thought made his stomach twist in knots. “Sounds boring.”

“Please?” Logan fidgeted with his glasses. “I can repay you later.”

“How so?” Virgil raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Better choose wisely, Logan.”

“Hmm.” Logan stared into the distance, tapping his chin. “There are several options here. I could give you money, food, or some other tangible object that might please you. I could give you an intangible, such as friendship, though I have no idea whether you lack in those areas. I could also promise you a favor. Perhaps tutoring, or giving you answers for tests? I am quite capable of such things. I have done them in the past for friends and people who have blackmailed me.”

Virgil widened his eyes. “Blackmailed? What?”

“Or,” Logan narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, “I could repay you in…other ways.”

Virgil stared for a second before bursting out laughing. “Oh my god, are you implying—like, we’ll make out if I give that speech? Dude!”

Logan chuckled too, his face flushing. “I have heard it is a useful bargaining chip when dealing with teenage males.”

“Dealing with teenage males,” Virgil repeated, still chuckling. “You sound like Jane Goodall. Maybe I’m not gay, did you think of that?”

Logan shrugged. “Are you gay?”

Oh no oh no what do I tell him what do I say he started this conversation so he’ll probably be okay with it but what if—no, Virgil, just play it cool.

“So what if I am?”

No, that was not cool. That was borderline aggressive. Way to go, Virgil, you came off as super defensive.

“There would be no problem if so,” Logan clarified. “I am also homosexual.”

“Intellectual and homosexual?”

“Exactly.”

Virgil smiled and let out a breath. “Yeah. I mean—me too. I’m…gay. Maybe not the intellectual part.”

“You do well in History,” Logan said with a smile. “I’m sure your intellectual capacities are above average.”

“Is that your way of saying I have big brain?”

“Actually, the size of one’s brain does not correlate to intellectual faculties—”

“I know, I know.” Virgil waved a hand, still smiling. “Back to the topic at hand. Would you actually tutor me?”

Logan nodded. “Of course. I enjoy helping others. What subjects do you have trouble with, may I ask?”

Virgil stared at his hands. “Math.”

“A common answer. You’re not alone.” Logan paused. “So if I give you my tutoring skills, in return you will give this speech?”

Virgil bit his lip. “I dunno, Logan…tutoring would be nice and all, but I’m not exactly a big fan of public speaking.”

“Well, no worries, I can ask another student.” Logan looked around. “Does anyone wish to say my speech instead of me?”

Nobody looked in his direction.

“Disappointing.” Logan adjusted his tie. “I guess I’ll just have to say it myself, then.”

The dejection and anxiety in his voice caught Virgil off guard.

“Are you…” Virgil began. “I mean…do you…why don’t you want to say it?”

“I don’t want to,” Logan said briskly. “I’m not a fan of public speaking.”

“What part?” Virgil asked too loudly. He began to fidget with his sleeves, avoiding Logan’s gaze as he tried to explain. “Like, for me, I’m scared of everyone watching me and that I’ll mess up or start crying or something. If it’s something specific, maybe I can…help? I have some…experience with getting nervous about things.”

Logan’s expression was unreadable. Finally, he spoke.

“Thank you, Virgil.” His voice was soft and quiet, different than the confident tone of a few minutes ago. “I appreciate that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Virgil asked.

Logan blew out a huff of air. “It’s not the public speaking that scares me,” he confessed. “I’m usually okay with attention, although I don’t seek it out like some of my more…exuberant friends. But today, I guess, well—” Logan ran his fingers through his hair and looked away. “Never mind. It’s illogical.”

Virgil reached forward tentatively and placed his hand on Logan’s shoulder. “I bet it’s not. However you’re feeling, whatever’s bothering you, I know it’s valid. You don’t…have to tell me, ‘cause I’m just a weirdo who sits near you, but—”

“I’m not wearing a binder!”

Logan’s face was screwed tightly and his eyes were shut, as if bracing for a storm.

“I’m not wearing a binder,” Logan repeated, more quietly. “So I can have more breath to play clarinet. I volunteered before I remembered. I don’t want to—I don’t want to go out there looking like—”

Oh. Oh.

Logan’s eyes were still closed. He rubbed his face.

“Never mind. I’m sorry to bother you, I will just figuratively ‘man up’ and perform the speech myself—”

Logan looked dejected. He looked ashamed and desolate and waiting for Virgil to turn around and run away or call him names or just treat him differently. Like he was used to it.

He reminded Virgil of himself.

Before he could stop himself, Virgil reached forward and snatched the paper.

“You don’t have to. I’ll do it.”

“Really?” Logan’s eyes opened, and for a second, Virgil saw the pure relief on his face. Then his eyes darkened with worry. “Are you sure? I don’t want to put you in a tough position.”

“You’re not,” Virgil assured him. “I promise. Just—you’d better be a good tutor, Lo.”

“I’m the best.” Logan crossed his chest. “Nerd’s honor.”

“Then we’re all cool here.” Virgil glanced down at the script. “The song’s almost over, what do I do?”

“Just stand onstage, take the microphone off the stand.” Logan spoke slowly and clearly, as if he could see Virgil’s increasing heart rate. “Click the button on the bottom, hold it and say your part. Turn the microphone off, put it back, and go to your seat. If you need help, ask the conductor.”

“Okay. Okay. Okay.” Virgil nodded to himself. “I can do that. I can.”

“Are you sure? Are you good to do this?”

“I think so.” Virgil closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s a short speech. I think I’ll be okay.”

Logan leaned forward intently. “Please, Virgil. If this is upsetting you, please tell me. I do not want to force you into this because I can’t face my own fears—"

“No!” Virgil interrupted. “It’s completely cool to not do things you’re uncomfortable with. You’re not a coward. You’re being reasonable. And, I mean, it’s not exactly what I’d have chosen, you know? But it’s for a friend. I know we just met!” he added hastily. “I hope it’s not weird, and I mean, I don’t really know you, but you’re the nicest anyone’s ever been in a while, so…it makes me happy to help you. That’s what…friends do. If we’re friends. Because…I’d like to be friends. With you.”

Logan’s mouth opened slightly. He looked speechless.

“I’d love to be your friend, Virgil,” Logan finally said. “Thank you.”

Virgil found himself smiling, and Logan smiled back. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a pen, taking Virgil’s music folder and scribbled down a sequence of numbers.

“My number,” Logan explained. “For the tutoring, and for…anything else.”

Virgil nodded. “I’ll text you when this is over. Promise.”

“Thanks.”

The choir hit a truly terrible pitch and finally silenced, enjoying the dull applause from the parents around them. The band around Virgil stood up, and he walked onstage with the rest. His hands were sweating again, and shaking, and he felt his fingers slip from his folder and flute. He tightened his grip and walked faster, placing his things on his chair before making his way to the front of the stage.

The auditorium was almost full. Virgil scanned the crowd briefly. Faces stared back at him. In the front few rows were the orchestra and choir students, sitting down to watch the band. Roman whispered something to Patton and both of them giggled.

Behind Virgil, he heard the rustling and clinking of the band getting ready. Soon the sounds faded away. The conductor caught Virgil’s eye and nodded, gesturing for him to start speaking.

It took a second for Virgil to turn on the microphone. He clasped it in one hand. How close should he put it to his mouth? He didn’t want a feedback squeal or to be too loud. But if no one heard him, that would be a problem, too. He was running out of time! Everyone was staring, behind and in front of him—he felt trapped on this stage with the too-hot lights and a small crinkly script he’d barely glanced at. He glanced at it now, feeling his heart pound. His mouth was dry. Maybe he’d try to speak and nothing would come out, or he’d just lean forward and puke. He’d never live this down.

There was a loud thud behind him. Virgil turned automatically and saw Logan had hit his stand with his clarinet. Virgil stared at him in confusion. Logan smiled back.

“You can do this,” he mouthed.

Virgil felt a bit of his nervousness ebb away. Logan had put the spotlight on himself just to encourage Virgil. He could see Virgil was panicking and he helped.

Virgil turned around, holding out the script, reading the words over and over. It was only five sentences. Five sentences.

Five chances to mess up.

Five sentences. For a friend.

You can do this.

Virgil closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.

And spoke.

#fanfiction #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #analogical #virgil sanders #logan sanders #logan angst #pre-relationship #anxiety #self-deprecation #trans logan #dysphoria #public speaking #high school au #human au #band au #friendship #virgil is a good friend #averywrites

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howaminotinthestrokesyet · 3 years

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Where Have They Gone Now: Axl Rose

Born William Bailey originally in Lafayette, Indiana in 1962. His mother was still in high school when she had him, while his juvenile delinquent father was 20 years old. They would divorce when he was two years old, which led his father William Rose abducting him and reportedly molesting the young boy. His mother remarried to a man named Steven Bailey, who was not much better than his birth father. Axl and his siblings were beaten on a regular basis and once again reportedly molested as well. Led by his stepfather, the Rose household was very strict religiously growing up in the Pentecostal faith. He was required to attend church 7 to 8 times a week, and even taught Sunday school on occasion. This seems to be in stark contrast to the Axl Rose we will see later. Axl would comment on his upbringing. “We'd have televisions one week, then my stepdad would throw them out because they were Satanic. I wasn't allowed to listen to music. Women were evil. Everything was evil." Music became a source of solace from an early age as he began singing in the church choir at the age of five. Rose began as a natural baritone, but decided to change his pitch consistently during practice just to anger the teacher. The future Guns N’ Roses lead singer also began to study piano at Jefferson High School, as well as participating in high school musicals. At the age of 17, Axl was going through some insurance papers when he discovered the existence of his biological father. At that time, he unofficially adopted his real father‘s last name of Rose, but told everyone he would not share a first name with him only referring to himself as W. Rose. After this discovery, the young man began to completely act out leading to at least 20 misdemeanor arrests from public intoxication to assault. Lafayette police were trying to charge him as a habitual criminal when he moved to LA in 1982 at the age of 20.

Almost immediately upon arrival, Rose joined the band Rapidfire with guitarist Kevin Lawrence. He had met him just outside the Troubadour in West Hollywood. They recorded a five song demo, but due to legal actions was not released until 2014. The EP was entitled Ready To Rumble. His next band included childhood friend and guitarist Izzy Stradlin, which they named Hollywood Rose. They recorded a demo featuring songs like “Shadow of Your Love,” “Anything Goes,” and “Reckless Life.” These songs would appear on various releases throughout the years including 2004’s, The Roots of Guns N’ Roses. The band would break up just after the hiring of Slash and Steven Adler. The biggest reason for this was that Rose decided to join LA Guns led by guitarist Tracii Guns. As he struggled for musical success, the young Axl continued to work to make any sort of money including night manager of Tower Records and even smoking cigarettes for a scientific study at UCLA with Izzy Stradlin. By 1985, Rose had restarted Hollywood Rose, so this band and LA Guns could merge their members. Guns N’ Roses was finally born, but almost immediately Tracii Guns and two other members left the band. Essentially, Guns N’ Roses became an expanded version of Hollywood Rose rather than any connection to LA Guns. They simply liked the name, so they kept it. Yet, there is absolutely no Guns in the band.

One thing to understand about Rose and his prima donna behavior that eventually led to the disintegration of the band was that every band in Los Angeles wanted him to be their lead singer in the mid-1980s. Axl had a certain buzz about the energy and intensity he brought every night on stage that could not be replicated. He represented the shining star of the Sunset Strip at that time; he could pick any group that was not signed to a record contract. The band would sign with Geffen Records in 1986, but one thing to note was that right before he changed his name officially to W. Axl Rose. The name originated when he was playing in a band called the Axls, so one of his bandmates suggested that he change his name to Axl. Rose thought it was a cool idea and never changed it. As the band began their sudden rise to the top of the music world, people began to realize that Rose was much different than any other singer before him. He began to single people out in the crowd, who were causing problems after two people died at the Monsters of Rock Festival in 1988. Most times previously singers would tell roadies to take care of it without publicly calling out anyone in the crowd. If you listen to their live compilation album, there are a couple of tracks where you can hear him actually doing this. Axl would say this in a 1992 interview. “Most performers would go to a security person in their organization, and it would just be done very quietly. I'll confront the person, stop the song: 'Guess what: You wasted your money, you get to leave.'" Upon the release of their EP Lies, Rose ran into quite a bit of controversy for his use of racial and homophobic slurs in the song, “One in a Million.” His explanation and defense of the use of the terms at the time was he meant it to be a joke about people that are a pain in your ass in your life. If that had occurred in our present times, he would have been canceled immediately. In 1992, the singer tried to explain the use of the lyrics once again relating some personal experiences he had with blacks and gays that had formed this negative connotation in his mind. For all the controversy, the group was dropped from a 1992 AIDS benefit show. By 1989, most rock writers had begun to see him as one of the top frontmen in rock and roll at the time. Rolling Stone had such respect for him as a singer that they allowed him to use his personal photographer for their story on him, instead of someone on their staff. During the recording of Use Your Illusion, Rose began to impose his will upon the band in a variety of ways. He forced the band to accept his friend Dizzy Reed as a keyboardist. Axl then wanted to fire their longtime manager Alan Nevin, which the band had to go along with because the singer threatened to not perform on the album if he was allowed to stay.

The Use Your Illusion tour began in May 1991 highlighted by concerts that started hours late, rants of his on stage, and even a riot in St. Louis. He tried to jump into the crowd during that show to take away a fan’s video camera, so after he got back on stage Rose quit the concert. Upon seeing an empty stage, the 25,000 people there started a riot. The damage bill came out to be just around $200,000. The friendships between the band members and Rose were gradually imploding throughout the tour. At one point, Axl demanded and received legal ownership of the Guns N’ Roses brand name. He had supposedly issued an ultimatum either give me legal ownership or I will not perform. Axl would later deny these reports saying the contract would not have been legally binding if he had done such a thing. Who knows what the truth is when it comes to this band sometimes? The singer helped to start another riot in Montreal at a concert co-headlined by Metallica. The heavy metal band had their concert cut short because pyrotechnics severely burned lead singer James Hetfield. Once again, Rose was nowhere near the venue to go on early coming on stage very late. The group needed to do an extensive set to make up for the short one by Metallica, but Rose cut his set short claiming voice problems. Once again, the fans rioted leading to some extensive fines directed towards the singer by Canadian authorities.

In 1994, the band released the covers album The Spaghetti Incident, which included a hidden track originally written by Charles Manson. Axl had intended the song to be a message to his ex-girlfriend Stephanie Seymour. The controversy that followed this song meant that the band needed to donate money for the son of one of the victims of those murders. In 1994, Rose also decided to terminate guitarist Gilby Clarke as a member of the band without consulting any of the other members. This decision was made so that Axl could bring in the controversial guitar replacement, Paul Tobias, which eventually led to Slash leaving the band. By 1997, the only original member of Guns N’ Roses was one Axl Rose. He had started to fade from any public view becoming essentially a rock and roll hermit. The media had dubbed him either Rock and Roll’s Greatest Recluse or the Howard Hughes of Rock and Roll. By the late 1990’s, rumors began to spread that Rose was forming a new lineup of Guns N’ Roses for an album entitled Chinese Democracy.

The absolute insanity that was Chinese Democracy took place from 2001 to 2011. The album would be officially released in 2008, but not after several starts and stops over and over again. A tour of the new album had been scheduled from 2001 to 2002, but almost all of the shows were either cut short or canceled because Rose was either a no-show or would quit very quickly. Finally, in 2006 and 2007, he actually toured as Guns N’ Roses promising new music. The concert offered very little in Chinese Democracy, but only concentrated on their hit songs. Around this time, he had changed his hair into cornrows, which got a laugh from music fans everywhere. One should note that Izzy Stradlin actually made a few guest appearances during that tour. Fans had hoped that a reunion collaboration might occur, but there was no such luck. Upon the release of Chinese Democracy, the singer did everything he could to sabotage any possible success the album might have overall. He refused to promote the album, would not return phone calls, or give interviews for three months after the release of the album. By the time he actually did say something about the album, the reclusive Rose complained that Interscope Records did not help them very much in promoting the album. In 2009, Axl and GNR went on a 2 1/2 year long tour, which included a headlining appearance at Rock in Rio 4. Around that time, he was sued by former band manager Irving Azhoff for $1.87 million. Of course, Axl countersued him claiming that he was forced to do a reunion tour because Azhoff had completely mismanaged the release, promotion, and tour of Chinese Democracy. In 2010, he sued Activision for their game Guitar Hero. Axl claimed that he had an oral agreement with the company that if “Welcome to the Jungle” was allowed on the game, then Slash nor any Velvet Revolver would not be included in any release of it. Not only was Slash’s music included in the game, but he ended up on the cover. A judge threw out the lawsuit in 2013 saying that Rose could not prove the oral agreement and the statute of limitations had run out anyway. In 2012, the Guns N’ Roses singer was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but he declined to appear. In an open letter published on the Internet, Rose stated that due to the tensions between his former bandmates, he did not want to be where he was not wanted or respected. Yet, slowly but surely Guns N’ Roses began to tour with some of the original members culminating with the inclusion of Slash in 2016.

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youngwings-writes · 4 years

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Infinitely Ordinary

Lee Felix x OC

Summary: "𝕀 𝕣𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕀 𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕙𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕝𝕠𝕨 𝕕𝕠𝕨𝕟"

Busy. Busy worrying, working, just trying to survive. That was the daily life of Jordan Johnson. The world never seemed to slow down; not for her...not for anyone. Finally deciding to take matters into her own hands and get some much needed R&R, she jets off on a trip to South Korea. While there, she unexpectedly meets her soulmate. Will they be able to find happiness together, or will his status get in the way?

Genre: Fluff

Length: 2k

Chapter 4: Sunshine

"So... I guess we're soulmates?"

I froze.

Obviously, I had come to that conclusion on my own already, but to hear Felix saying it was a whole other thing. Like, this is the boy I've been admiring from afar for years. I knew so much about him, but he probably didn't know I existed until 60 seconds ago.

I didn't trust my voice at this point, so I simply smiled and gave a shy nod in response.

"I know this is really sudden, but I'm not sure the middle of a dog cafe is where we should be discussing such a serious matter... is there any possibility we could go to wherever it is you're staying and continue getting to know one another?"

"O-of course! That's no problem at all. Just let me pull up directions again so I don't get us lost," I began fumbling with my phone, trying not to look as nervous as I felt.

Soon enough I had the directions to my apartment pulled up on my phone. Felix and I grabbed our drinks and made our way out into the streets of Seoul.

"It doesn't seem like you're from around here, where are you from?"

"Phoenix, Arizona, born and raised," I said with a hint of triumph. Arizona isn't exactly the classiest state, but to survive the summers was definitely a feat.

"Oh! I actually went to Phoenix not that long ago with my mem- my friends! I didn't get to see much of it before we left though."

I could tell he was going to say his members, but he stopped himself. I know he went to Phoenix. Hell, I saw him while he was in Phoenix. My friends and I pooled together enough money to get all four of us P5 tickets to their concert. Still not sure how our broke college student selves pulled that one off.

Should I tell him?

Well, he'll find out eventually, so why not bite the bullet and tell him now?

I took a deep breath.

"Can I tell you something, Felix?"

His head turned to face me, one eyebrow cocked in curiosity.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I want to be completely transparent with you, especially since we're apparently soulmates... I know who you are."

I could see him grow stiffer. I continued.

"My friends and I were at the Stray Kids concert in Phoenix. I've been a Stay since before debut. The last 10 minutes has my head absolutely reeling. I never thought that I would meet you or any of your members, let alone have you turn out to be my soulmate. If this makes you uncomfortable, I'm so sorry. It's probably strange hearing all of this; learning that your apparent soulmate knows so much about you while you know so little about them. Not to mention it's probably overwhelming. I mean, we're both still growing up, plus you have the stress of being an idol on top of it," I let my mouth run.

Everything came out like I had just opened the floodgates. I was beyond nervous to hear what he had to say, but also relieved to have said what I did. The last thing I want is to have kept the fact that I knew Felix before he knew me a secret. He deserves to know the truth and not feel like I just used the fact that he's my soulmate for my own personal gain. Keeping him in the dark and using him like that would just be fucked up.

"Okay, wow. First of all, I just wanna say thank you for telling me everything. I also want you to know that the fact that you know who I am doesn't make me uncomfortable. Actually, I'm both flattered and relieved. I won't have to explain being an idol and what that entails for us, so that makes things a lot less stressful. This is completely new territory for both of us, we just need to trust one another and make adjustments as we go," he said as he flashed me a reassuring smile.

"Besides, the fact that you know more about me than I know about you only means I have to spend more time with you and work to know you faster. Plus you get to know a side of me not everyone knows."

"And I'm hoping that side isn't some secret dark side you've been hiding to save face," I gave his shoulder a nudge.

The remainder of the walk to my apartment was relatively quiet. There was a bit of small talk here and there, but nothing extreme. For the most part, we just strolled along in a comfortable silence. It was... suprisingly nice.

One of my personal fears has always been making a fool of myself in front of others or making things awkward; especially with people I looked up to. To be experiencing such a comfortable peace with Felix seemed unreal. Bonus points for only mildly making a fool of myself in the very beginning.

Self improvement baby :)

Even with my poor navigation skills and even worse sense of direction, we made it to my apartment building without any problems.Entering the glass double doors, Felix and I made our way to the elevator. The elevator doors opened with a soft ding and we stepped in. Pressing the button for the third floor, we began our ascent.

When we arrived in front of my door, I almost made the move to input my phone password on the keypad. Force of habit. Realizing what I was about to do, I pulled out my phone and notes app, punching in the number I knew I would've forgotten otherwise. Just as before, a soft beep and click were heard as the door unlocked and we may our way inside.

Shedding our shoes (or feet prisons as my sister would call them), we made our way towards the couch in the small living area the rental possessed. Since we both still had food and drinks from the cafe, I rushed to the kitchen to get plates and utensils for the two of us.

Upon returning to the couch I saw that Felix had already began unpacking our leftovers. I set the plates down and started helping him plate the treats.

"So, you said that you've been a Stay since pre-debut, right?"

"Yeah. I think it was around December of 2017 that I found Stray Kids."

"Wow. Was it random that you stumbled across us, or did you find us through another group?"

"A little bit of both. I first started listening to K-Pop back in 2012, but didn't really get into it until around 2014. From there, I got into F(x), Shinee, and BTS, but I was still more of a casual listener than anything. In 2016 I got into GOT7, Day6, and Twice, so I obviously knew about your label. Funny enough though, I found Stray Kids because one of the people I rode the bus with was talking about how they were upset with how the survival show was going. I think it was right between when you were eliminated and the finale..."

I felt kind of bad bringing up the part about his elimination. I had absolutely no clue if it was still a touchy subject or not. Seeing how far he's come and where he is now, I really hope it isn't and that he doesn't beat himself up over it. JYP's reasoning for it all was complete bullshit anyway.

"Well, that'll make for quite the introduction, huh?"

"For sure. I may not have been there from the very beginning like some others had, but there was definitely some intense feelings of pride seeing you all standing on that stage being told you would debut together."

"I don't think I'll ever forget that moment. Getting there was beyond difficult, but having experienced all I have now, I can 100% say it was worth every second." Felix's eyes shimmered as he spoke. Anyone could tell that he was thinking not only of his members, his brothers, but his fans as well.

Being such a music fanatic, I've seen some bands that you can tell don't care about their fans. While this was way more common in the Western music scene, it did happen in the Kpop world as well. Despite that, I could confidently say that Stray Kids genuinely care for Stay; I could say that before I discovered Felix was my soulmate.

"So do you have any other hobbies or interests besides Stray Kids?"

"Nooo, not at all," I quipped back, my voice oozing sarcasm. A small chuckle was elicited from the freckled boy's throat.

"In all seriousness, music is one of my biggest hobbies. I did musical theatre from age 5 until age 11, I was in choir throughout all of my middle school years, and played trombone in middle school and high school. I don't play a lot now, but I still find the time every now and then. When I wasn't taking part in local musical endeavors, I was at some concert with my friends or my sister. Other than that, I enjoy reading, writing, photography, baking, and cosmetology."

"Quite the artist, aren't you?"

"In every sense except painting or drawing, yes. Ask me to do either of those and I will go running for the hills. Why I can do makeup, but I can't paint or draw I will never know."

"I guess the only explanation is that life is just weird like that sometimes," he laughed again. I always loved his laugh before, but hearing it face-to-face was literal heaven. This boy is straight up an angel, and no one can convince me otherwise.

We spent the next hour or two in my temporary home, conversation continuing to flow. I always knew and acknowledged the fact that idols and other celebrities are normal people just like you and me, but I couldn't help but freak out a little when I met anyone. Of course the same applied to Felix, but I think I got over the shock value faster than I normally would. I didn't really dwell on the fact that he was a world famous idol for long; I honestly almost forgot about it.

Normally, it takes me a while to warm up to people and feel comfortable with them, but Felix seemed to be an exception. The more we spoke and got to know one another, the longer I felt I had known him. Talking with him almost felt like talking with my best friend since preschool.

Just as conversation was beginning to die down a bit, Felix's phone buzzed from the table. He quickly picked it up and checked the notification. I watched him read the words sprawled across his screen, his smile slightly falling.

"Have to go back to the JYP building?" I inquired.

"Yeah. We have a performance in a few days, so we've been drilling pretty hard lately. I'm honestly kinda surprised that I didn't get called back sooner. It's been a few hours since I left," he explained while rubbing the nape of his neck.

"Well, I've already kept you here longer than I probably should have. I don't want to get you in trouble with your members or any staff."

"I suppose you have a point... but how about you come with me?"

"...come with you?"

"Yeah, come with me to JYP, meet my members, watch us practice. Everyone there has to meet you eventually since we're soulmates and all, so why not take care of it sooner rather than later?"

"I don't really have any other specific plans for today, so it could work. But are you sure bringing me won't get you in trouble?"

"As long as it doesn't interfere with our work, you should be good to go. I'm sure you'll be fine. It's not like you're gonna run around wreaking havoc or anything."

"Okay, let's head out then."

We quickly cleaned the living area, grabbed what we needed, and made our way back to the entrance of my building. Hailing the closest cab, Felix and I got in. He gave the cab driver the address to the JYP building and we were on our way.

I guess I'm meeting the rest of Stray Kids now.

#felix #lee felix #lee yongbok #felix lee #felix stray kids #stray kids felix #stray kids #skz #stray kids imagines #stray kids drabbles #kpop #kpop imagines #kpop drabbles #youngwings-writes

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heartsofminds · 5 years

Text

Grudges

Description: The one where a girl named Izzy holds a grudge, and Shawn calls her out on it.

Word Count: 8.3k

If Shawn Mendes was to describe himself, party animal was not a word that came to mind. He’s too reserved for that, too cautious to really let loose and enjoy himself through dancing and drinking games.

He’s only here because his friend Marcus begged him to come. Despite Marcus being a good friend of his, he doesn’t give a shit about his surroundings and he can’t be bothered to know whose who and where he is exactly. He can’t name any streets and he can’t sing along to any of the songs being played.

The atmosphere makes him dizzy and lethargic and he can only soak up everything his eyes scan to keep from dying of boredom.

He takes notice of the specific shade of yellow the couch he’s sitting on is and the four ice cubes in his glass. He’s drinking some kind of sangria (it’s supposed to be watermelon, he thinks) and he comes to the conclusion that it doesn’t have enough alcohol. He only knows this because he’s had at least four and he isn’t tipsy in the slightest.

He’s never been a hard drinker, believe it or not, but he knows his alcohol and he knows party ethic. From years of being too underaged to drink he knows how much it sucks to be completely aware and sober at a party you aren’t exactly enjoying.

It really isn’t his cup of tea (or sangria, really).

He hates how observant he is.

He hates how he can count the beats of the 6lack song playing in the background and he hates how he knows how many tiles are in the ceiling (only because he’s counted them at least ten times). He hates how he knows Amber’s a bitch according to the girl behind him, and he hates how out of place he is.

He’s Shawn fucking Mendes, for God’s sake. Yet here he is on a Saturday night, with watermelon sangria in a glass with four ice cubes, on a mustard yellow couch watching the world turn without him.

He can’t really complain all that much, because deep down, he kinda likes it. He kinda likes the feeling of being absent but present in such a bustling area. He likes not being poked and prodded for information and he likes not having to focus on his every word to keep from sounding stupid or offensive or rude.

He likes knowing everyone’s little quirks and quips when they’re drunk and he likes the house plants Mallory put up for decoration and the fairy lights lining almost every goddamn entrance and exit.

He’s really only here for her and Marcus to be totally truthful, and it’s almost like he feels indebted. So much so, that he had to attend her "small" (a severe understatement) gathering (which is not synonymous to a party) even though he’d much rather be locked away in his condo and listening to Continuum on vinyl.

So in short, Shawn likes the minimal but all the most perceptive landscape of his surroundings exclusive to him and his thoughts only.

But he doesn’t really like the new view he has currently of a girl with a jean skirt on and a yellow shirt (that matches the couch, he notes) making out with a boy who’s decked out in designer clothes. Shawn thinks they make him look cheap.

They back up closer to where he’s sitting, so unaware and so caught up in each other’s mouths that they don’t realize that they’re backing up directly into him.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything and the sheer annoyance of what’s happening doesn’t seem to faze him all that much. Before he knows it, jean skirt girl sits on him and his cup of sangria;

spilling it all over him, the couch, and her ass.

She jolts up at the impact.

"What the fuck?” she asks, feeling her behind to judge is something is making it wet.

She looks behind her to see the dampened denim of his jeans. “Oh shit. Sorry, dude,” she apologizes, turning back to the boy in designer clothes and reattaching their lips.

"I uh- M’gonna head out anyway. You guys can have this spot,” he says and before she can respond, he pulls his jean jacket on and extends his long legs through the door. With muffled sounds of chatter and the brisk September air stinging his cheeks, he looks up and realizes how unfamiliar he is with this side of town.

So much for telling himself he was observant.

The next hour is spent with Siri redirecting him to his condo and recalculating every time he misses a turn.

Over the course of two months, Shawn and Marcus are almost attached at the hip and Mallory is one of his good friends now.

There’s been at least twelve house parties of Mallory’s he’s been invited to in the past eight weeks. With every invite is a smiley face and a "Hope you can come!!" attached and Shawn can never bring himself to decline; not after she so kindly invites him every time.

So whenever she knows he’s in Toronto (sometimes he’s in New York and other times he’s in California; Mallory’s timing isn’t a strong point of her’s), he sees a text with smiley faces and a friendly invite (that always includes a plus one).

Nine out of ten times he texts back that he’ll try and make it and, "Totally! Thanks for inviting me lol".

He’s not quite sure how he and Mallory became close because if it wasn’t for her frequent house parties, Shawn’s sure he wouldn’t call her more than an acquaintance.

Before the house parties and watermelon sangria (that’s shitty, but he never refuses when offered) and the fairy lights and mustard yellow couch, Mallory was a friend of a friend; a girl at his high school who sat at the same lunch table as him, but he can honestly say they never got that well acquainted back then.

He can only remember brief conversations about his soccer games and her scholastic bowl matches with choir concerts and small talk with witty humor mixed in somewhere. She’s grown up quite a bit since high school, but he can still picture her with braces and wild, curly red hair.

She was a talented artist who he’s pretty sure makes art for album covers and she’s dating Marcus, who was one of his closest friends in high school.

So he shows up at her doorstep with some overpriced wine coolers in hand and a dazzling smile. He likes to joke that it’s his own personal hypnosis technique because it works so well in getting him whatever he wants.

The little gold knob clicks and turns; the mahogany door swinging open and a dreary face meeting his dazzling smile.

It was jean skirt girl. He found out from Mallory that her name was Izzy, and that the two were best friends.

He puckers his lips and rubs at his mouth with his thumb. It’s something he does when he’s nervous and this girl’s icy stare makes his blood run cold.

"Can I help you," she says, voice a little more bitter than what he’s used to.

Shawn furrows his brows.

"Uhh, yeah, actually. Is Mallory, is she home? This is the right house, right?"

Izzy scoffs.

"You can see the party inside and the big ass 'M' on the doormat. Sorta thought you had a brain up there, Chip Skylark."

Shawn stifles a chuckle at her low blow. It’s one of the best ones he’s heard and it’s is kinda funny, he admits.

"C’mon. I brought wine," he bargains, flashing her a smile and reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder. His hand glides up and down her forearm, stopping at her hand and holding it; giving it a slight squeeze.

He doesn’t know why he’s being so touchy, but this girl makes him pull out all the moves he’s learned from 2000s chick flicks and TV shows.

She eyes him up and down, sizing him up to make her final decision.

"Guess you can come in since I sat on your sangria that one time. Don’t think of it as a favor," Izzy says menacingly, opening the door wider and moving so he can get through.

He navigates his way to Mallory’s kitchen, setting the wine down on the counter and grabbing a beer; absolutely no shitty watermelon sangria for him tonight.

Somewhere along the lines of four shots and three Coronas, he ends up with some girl’s tongue down his throat.

He got her name ("It’s Macy spelled M-a-c-i-e," she had said) so he’s obviously more respectful than what he thought. She seems like a decent girl and he likes to think he’s a gentleman so he knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows he shouldn’t he locking lips with the rather attractive blonde in his lap and he knows it’s wrong; totally not the proper hook-up etiquette if you asked him.

Shawn believes that if you’re hooking up with someone, they should be the only thing on your mind and he’s certain that this girl isn’t.

It’s because he’s thinking about her. He’s thinking about the way she called him Chip Skylark and the burgundy skirt she has on. He’s thinking about what her lips would taste like and he also thinks that if she’s anything opposite of Macie, she doesn’t like tequila.

"I’m gonna go get a drink. Don’t go anywhere, babe," Macie says, playing with his shirt collar before getting lost in the crowd.

Mallory eyes Shawn from across the room.

“Condom?” she mouths, eyes filled with mischief. He waves her off. “Won’t happen,” he says, knowing Mallory can’t hear him but can see his lips move.

Mallory lets out a laugh before turning around to join in on the conversation surrounding her and Shawn overhears someone yell, "Nuh uh. No fucking way, dude!"

It almost makes him wish he was as unfamiliar with his environment as he first was.

He seriously has to pee and he curses himself for drinking so much tonight. It was more of a boredom thing he did while in social settings. He was very much a tactile person, always fidgeting and touching everything, so in an attempt to be less of an awkward nuisance (he thinks everyone thinks he is, anyway), he finds the most drinkable thing and just has at it.

It’s stupid that he drinks so much water because of that insecurity and it’s even more idiotic that when people ask why he downs them, he says it’s for his voice.

How pathetic could he get?

So while his bladder screams at him to find a bathroom, Shawn thinks about the words coming out of Macie’s mouth.

To stay put or to go pee? He decides that his bladder wins his inner debate whenever he jolts up and tries to find a toilet of some sort.

He brushes past what seems like millions of make out sessions and even some drunk karaoke before he finds Mallory’s bathroom.

He can’t be bothered to knock and prays to God that it’s unlocked as he turns the knob towards himself.

"Oh my God! Go! Just get the fuck out!" Izzy yells.

Her runny mascara and red nose obviously display that tonight isn’t one of her nights and Shawn’s not up for a battle; not when he’s a little more than tipsy and he’s gonna start leaking urine any moment now.

"Jesus, fuck. I’m - I’m sorry," he stammers, swinging the door shut almost as fast as he opened it.

He hears the tap run and stop. He knows she’s trying to calm herself down or destress or whatever the fuck and he seriously contemplates if pissing in Mallory’s kitchen sink is a good idea.

It’s not like she would care, and he would totally clean up after himself.

He knocks softly on the door.

"Hey, I know you’re upset or whatever but could you - could you like, hurry up? My bladder’s screamin' out here."

It’s the most asshole-ish thing he thinks anyone could ever say to someone who’s having a rough night, but it’s the truth.

Izzy swings the door open and her eyes shoot darts at Shawn.

“Yeah. Yeah totally, asshole. Just because you’re fucking pretty and famous, doesn’t mean that you get to chat me up at the door and act like you own the fucking place. I got broken up with tonight because of you, so cut the nice guy act. We all know you’re a dick,” she snaps, tone sending a million and one messages to him that scream “fuck you”.

She starts to stomp away, clearly angry at him for reasons he doesn’t really understand. Sure, her boyfriend dumped her and sure, he was probably being a little too friendly at the door, but he doesn’t see how any of this is his fault at all.

His need to be liked gets the best of him and he grabs her arm to pull her back, to talk about what happened and why she’s so angry. Shawn’s sure he’s never left a sour taste in anyone’s mouth before, and he sure as hell isn’t gonna start with her.

"Let me go," she spits, fury deep in her eyes.

His fingers reluctantly open, allowing her to spin away and evaporate into a group of people in the kitchen.

If he didn’t have to pee so badly, he would have chased after her. Instead, he settles for longingly staring at the pathway she took before he’s interrupted by the bathroom door being slammed shut in his face again.

Shawn leans his head up against the wood while banging his fist on it.

"C’mon, bro! I have to fucking piss!" he yells, hoping the person inside will have some type of sympathy for him and his bladder.

"Had all the fucking time in the world tryna chat up the Ice Queen!" someone yells back.

Shawn groans and slides down the wall in front of the bathroom, half hoping that he won’t pee his pants and half thinking it wouldn’t be a horrible idea. At least he’d get to go home.

His thoughts are interrupted as Mallory attempts to carry a more than hammered Marcus to her bedroom.

"Shawn, a little help?" she asks, giving him puppy dog eyes he can’t refuse.

He bites his lip. "Whatever. Make it quick because m'about to piss all over your hardwood floors."

Mallory laughs, adjusting Marcus so Shawn can lift him up on his shoulder.

"You wouldn’t dare. Hardwood’s fucking expensive, man."

Shawn grimaces, his discomfort maximizing. "Mal, please! Hurry so I can go!" he nearly shouts.

"Fuck, sorry. Sorry."

Marcus stands up straight before his face turns white. Shawn knows that look and he knows it well. It’s the look he had when he drank in Mexico for the first time when he had just turned eighteen.

Zubin’s rental car (which he had to pay extra for to shampoo the carpet afterwards) will never forgive him.

"No!" he yells out as Marcus doubles over, vomit exiting his mouth at lightning speed.

The pink mess reeks of watermelon sangria and beer and it really stands out on top of his expensive black boots.

"Oh my God! Oh my God, Shawn I’m really sorry. Fuck," Mallory apologizes, trying to stifle a laugh.

He sighs, smiling through gritted teeth.

"It’s fine."

So they drag Marcus to Mallory’s room successfully and she uses some lemon scented Clorox wipes to clean his puke stained shoes.

He gives her a hug and pretends to not be angry about his boots or his bladder and rushes to the unoccupied bathroom as fast as he can.

It’s when he’s washing his hands at 2:23 AM in Mallory’s bathroom that he determines her party throwing is getting a little out of hand, and that Izzy is a total bitch.

Growing up, Izzy never would’ve thought that she’d become so calloused.

She was the girl with pigtails and cloudy eyes stained with tears. She was the girl who cried when other kids got in trouble. She was the girl who cried at the thought of an abandoned dog. She was the girl who cried at any and fucking everything.

Her mother used to make jokes and say that her tear ducts would dry up if she kept using them, and while it was just a joke, it holds so much truth now in her adult life.

Her father used to give her speeches every night before he tucked her into bed.

"It’s okay to cry, but you can’t cry all the time,” he would say and at the time, she thought her dad was being a "meany", but he was right.

Izzy just wasn’t ready to give up crying.

She remembers the day she stopped crying or feeling or showing anything other than a default pallet of emotions.

She was in fifth grade and the teacher yelled at her for accidentally bumping into the TA and spilling the entire class sized bottle of glue on the floor.

Her throat got tight. Her eyes got big and her ears got red, but she was determined. Her determination was something that always earned her the 'Teacher’s Pet' title.

She refused to let her tears fall and for once, she didn’t cry. She sniffled, said an apology, and sat back down in her desk; mentally high-fiving herself for not bursting into a melodramatic waterworks show.

But she didn’t think that she would never cry again.

She didn’t cry when her dog got hit by a car. She didn’t cry watching the Titanic. She didn’t feel anything at all when her older brother passed away. She knew she was fucked when she couldn’t find it in herself to let a single tear fall due to her desire to be strong.

So Izzy doesn’t really know why she’s crying in Mallory’s bathroom over a boy she’s been hooking up with since Junior year.

Gavin was the exact appellation of useless and she doesn’t know why she’s settled for it for so long. The sex was god awful at times and the blur of where their friendship or acquaintanceship or whatever the hell they were, made her head hurt.

She’s tried to break it off hundreds of times before, but it’d never been successful. It’s became a pattern that always started with her getting wine drunk on Mallory’s living room floor, tears streaming down her face with the phrase, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

Izzy used to not know what stung her throat more: the shitty red wine or her words.

She’s glad that Mallory is such a good friend because she never called her stupid or dumb or shallow. She never told her what to do because she lets her make her own mistakes. Instead of giving her motherly advice, Mallory always patted her back and swore to never tell a soul she saw her cry.

And when Mallory forced her into bed, she used to stare up at the ceiling and re evaluate her life and her relationships and the situation at hand. With the red headed girl dead asleep beside her, she typed out the “Hey”’s and the “It’s just not working out”’s and her finger tips became flattened by the excessive drafting of what she really wanted to say. She’s always been good at bottling herself up, so she never sent them and they reside in her notes in her phone that never see the light of day.

Even though she thinks that she doesn’t really care that Gavin is breaking up with her or breaking off their hookup or ending their friendship (it’s hard for her to find the exact words for it), it still stings.

It still stings to get your heart stepped on. It stings to know that he had seen her body bare and clothed and drunk and sober. It stings that he had gotten to connect their bodies through intimacy she was taught to save for her husband. It stings to know that he knew what she sounded like when she moaned or sneezed or laughed.

It stings because he makes her feel small, and it’s a reminder of how people used to make her feel when she spent every recess crying alone by the monkey bars.

So she doesn’t know why her first instinct is to be bitter and nasty. She doesn’t know why she wants to punch out the lanky brunette she encountered at the front door. She doesn’t know why her chest is on fire and why her hands have balled themselves up into fists. She’s never been in control of her emotions when she became angry and the cranberry vodka she had earlier intensifies them even more.

To Izzy’s horror, the door swings open and the same brunette boy with a cutting jaw and developing smile lines who caused Gavin to get the wrong idea comes face to face with her. He’s the same brunette boy that the world knows as Shawn Mendes, but she knows him as the cause for her piteous tears.

If she’s being honest, face to face is an exaggeration because he’s so fucking tall, her head has to cock back to be able to look into his dopey eyes.

“Oh my God! Go! Just get the fuck out!” she hollers, rubbing at her eyes in an attempt to shield the evidence of her breakdown.

His hands shake as he looks for the door handle. His eyebrows furrow in worry and his eyes are wide. His lips quiver, searching for words to say but he comes up empty.

“Jesus, fuck. I’m - m’sorry!” he stutters, closing the door shut so hard and fast that it closes with a slam.

She grips the faux marble countertop and looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are bloodshot and red. Her eyebags are prominent and stained gray from her runny mascara. Her lips are swollen and her tears salt the cracks in them, making her mouth burn slightly. She takes deep breaths and attempts to calm herself down. She splashes cold water on her face and applies her mango chapstick.

No man was ever going to make a fool of her; especially after the night she had. All she can think about was getting crazy wasted and fucking her way through her emotions with a one night stand.

She almost talks herself out of her rage when a pounding (it was really a soft knock, but she has a right to be dramatic and bitchy) on the bathroom door rings her ears. Her head starts pounding and her grip along the edge of the porcelain sink gets tighter.

Her cheeks redden and her ears make her feel like she’s on fire.

“Hey, I know you’re upset or whatever but could you - could ya like, hurry up? My bladder’s screamin’ out here,” the boy speaks in a gentle tone.

Izzy takes his tone as a weak attempt to sound like a little less of an asshole , but she’s over it. She refuses to accept bullshit and half assed attempts at people treating her like she matters when she knows they couldn’t give a shit.

She swings the door open and she’s glad his face wasn’t close to it because it for sure would have hit him. He’s gorgeous, she thinks, but having a pretty face didn’t matter to her attitude.

She knows pulling the famous card isn’t fair, but she doesn’t care.

Him being the reason she got broken up with wasn’t fair.

She turns on her heels to walk into the kitchen, ready to drink herself into oblivion and maybe score a hit of a blunt or some sex along the way.

Izzy feels a tugging on her wrist and she looks down to see slender fingers encasing her forearm. Shawn’s face is unadorned and he opens his mouth to speak but she doesn’t want him to. She swears that if she hears his voice again or sees his face again or hears his name again; she will fucking explode.

She sends him a look of disgust, very much feeling the repugnance in the pit of her stomach.

“Let me go,” she hisses and she’s not sure why she’s being so bitchy. Shawn drops her wrist like she’s a million degrees and he’s just been burned.

Before he can say or do anything else to disturb her well being, she takes off into Mallory’s kitchen. She slides past couples making out and crushed red solo cups on the ground to get to the backdoor; taking her outside near the fire pit Mallory shared with the other residents of her apartment complex.

She sees her friend Max rolling a blunt and he waves her over to come smoke it with him.

They often had wordless exchanges like this. Max just got her and she’s so thankful he isn’t forcing her to talk. He can see her red nose and swollen eyes but he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t try to fix her. He doesn’t try to make her feel better.

He hands her the lit blunt and lets her get high out of her mind to forget all her problems for the night.

When Izzy and Max finish the blunt, the sound of the bass in “Without Me” playing from the living room is intensified, and she’s at ease. She’s almost forgotten about the incident and her episode of bitching until she sees the same head of mocha colored curls she despises dart from upstairs to the front door. Her composure crumbles and waterworks to start again.

She doesn’t make noise as the tears roll down her face.

Max looks over and exhales smoke from the last hit he took.

“You’re an eclipse and he’s the Sun,” he speaks, laying down on his back in the grass.

She raises her eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands.

“Take it however you want.”

With that, Max steps on the almost nonexistent blunt to put it out and lays back down. The sound of crickets and muffled top 100 hits encompasses them both.

“What’s the deal with your fucking friend? She hate me or something?” Shawn asks Mallory on a Tuesday afternoon.

He has millennial pink splattered across his cheek and his white tank top has splotches of the pink paint all over it.

Mallory had texted (again) and when Shawn saw her name pop up on his phone screen, his heart dropped just a little. He knew that if it was a party invite he would have to turn it down because it was Tuesday for God’s sake.

Who the hell parties on a Tuesday night?

To Shawn’s avail, though, it was just a favor based text message; one that promised homemade lemon cookies in exchange for “interior renovations”.

Both Shawn and Mallory and Marcus know that painting an apartment is real estate suicide if you’re renting, but Mallory has always been a colorful person, and she felt like her apartment needed to be colorful or she was going to go insane.

She went crazy with the painting all week; blowing her entire paycheck on cans of yellow and pink and teal to paint her boring apartment walls. It’s a death sentence to her security deposit, but she doesn’t care. All she can think about is what color throw pillows would compliment the new baby pink walls of her living room.

Marcus sighs as Shawn earns no response from Mallory, the redhead’s nose deep into a ‘Style at Home’ magazine.

He plucks the magazine from his girlfriend’s hands.

“I don’t know if you know this, but it’s rude to keep reading when someone’s talking to you,” he lectures, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mallory puffs her cheeks out and pushes a curl behind her ear. She’s never liked confrontation, and she always tried her best to stay out of it.

“There is no “deal”, Shawn. Izzy’s my best friend in the whole wide world and well, that’s just her - I don’t know. Personality? I know that’s no excuse for the way she bitched at you the other night but still,” she gets up from her position on the floor to snatch her magazine back from Marcus, “You’ve gotta try to see the best in her. I know how great of a person she can be.”

Shawn rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, she spilled sangria on my pants and used the “famous” card to call me a dick. Sounds pretty fucking great to me, Mal.”

Marcus clicks his tongue, hand coming up to run atop his waves he’s been trying to develop after cutting his afro last November.

“Mallory’s right, man. I know how Izzy can be, but you gotta get her to warm up. She’s like an onion. They have layers.”

Shawn sighs, dipping his brush into more of the pink paint.

“First off, you just quoted Shrek, and you’re not fucking funny,” he turns his back to swipe a stripe of color against the wall,” And I mean, I think I’m a pretty likeable person. I don’t make mean jokes. I bring housewarming gifts and I’m helping paint your stupid walls this hideous salmon.”

Shawn cracks his knuckles and licks his lips. “I don’t like bragging on myself, but what isn’t there to like?”

Mallory shakes her head, grabbing the paintbrush from Shawn and painting the section of the wall he promised to do.

“Well, for starters, you don’t know how to paint and you don’t know the fucking difference between salmon and millennial pink,” she swipes the paint in a straight line, “I think that makes a world of difference, buddy.”

He gives her a weak chuckle and pretends to gag when Marcus comes up behind her, giving her a big, wet kiss on the lips.

“You know, if you’re gonna practice making babies, I can leave. I don’t have to stay to witness this,” Shawn speaks.

They both turn to him and laugh.

“Then leave, Uncle Shawn,” Marcus jokes and Shawn grimaces.

“Yeah, I’m gonna head out. If I don’t get those lemon cookies, I’m burning this whole fucking apartment complex down.”

Shawn grabs his keys off the coffee table and walks himself to the corridor of the front door. He hears Mallory giggle and can see Marcus sucking bruises into her neck, the pink ridden paintbrush falling forgotten to the floor.

“You two are fucking gross!” he exclaims, trying to pull his Nikes on as fast as he can.

Her front door opens with a creak and he can faintly hear Mallory joke, “You’re just mad because you haven’t won a grammy!”

He grins to himself, closing Mallory’s front door and unlocking his Jeep; pulling out of the parking lot to drive back to his condo.

“Izzy, I don’t think you should be so mean,” Mallory rushes out.

They both sit with their legs criss-crossed, a pint of mint ice cream filling the gap between them.

Izzy sucks the dairy treat off her spoon. “What’s this about?” she asks, knowing that Mallory never brings something up just to talk about it.

There’s always a motive or a favor or a suggestion and although she knows Mallory’s heart is always in the right place, her desire to redesign and fix everything drives Izzy nuts.

“Nothing! It’s nothing. Well- I mean, Shawn came by to help paint and it just came up. I swear, he didn’t say anything bad.”

Izzy shoots her friend a look. Mallory always cracks under pressure and Izzy’s knowing brown eyes make her flustered.

“I mean, he asked what your deal was. And he said that you sound pretty fucking great,” she chimes, trying to market Shawn like he’s an overpriced vase at an auction.

The recorded audience laughter of That 70s Show plays in the background to fill the void of sound. Izzy shakes her head before dropping her spoon into the tub of ice cream. She gives Mallory a sadistic grin.

“Oh yeah? Was that before or after he failed to mention that he was being a dick and he got me broken up with?”

It’s Mallory’s turn to shake her head. “C’mon, Iz. That’s not fair and you know it. You’ve talked to the guy, like, twice and if anyone’s a dick, it’s Gavin.”

Izzy sighs, muting the TV. “Yeah, but the sex was great. I miss the sex. And the weed. I miss that the most.”

Mallory scoffs. “You told me the sex was mediocre and in my opinion, Max rolls better blunts than what Gavin could ever imagine.”

The caramel colored girl shrugs her shoulders to her pale friend’s statement and they continue to gorge on mint ice cream until their metal spoons hit the bottom of the paper tub.

Izzy doesn’t say much to Mallory for the rest of the night and Mallory feels bad. She should have never brought it up, should have never tried to rub her nose in someone else’s business. She’s always struggled with the fact that she can’t fix everyone’s problems.

Mallory is a creator and she always had been. She harvested talent in oil pastels and watercolors. Creation was the root of her identity; especially since she spent close to $12,000 on a fucking piece of paper that classified her as one.

So Mallory doesn’t know why she tries to create things out of nothing. She doesn’t know how relationships don’t appear out of thin air and how Izzy can be so pessimistic all the time. She honestly doesn’t get it, but then she remembers that Izzy’s attitude isn’t for her to get and that not everything beautiful can come from scratch paper and shitty pens.

The two girls spend the rest of the night avoiding conversation and binging That 70s Show.

Izzy goes to sleep with Fez on her mind while Mallory goes to sleep feeling disappointed that she can’t fix everything.

Brian must think he’s crazy.

Shawn’s mind constantly runs in circles and he’s absolutely, positively sure that Brian is fed up with him. His red headed friend sits on his more than uncomfortable suede couch with a beer in one hand and his head thrown back on the cushion.

He exhales heavily through his nose, a sign that he wanted Shawn to shut the hell up and talk about something that wasn’t Izzy for one, goddamn second.

“For someone who tells every interviewer that you don’t give a shit what other people think about you, you’re a pretty good liar,” Brian comments, putting his beer down on the coffee table and running his hands over his face.

Shawn shakes his head. “There’s fucking coasters right next to you, dumbass. They’re there for a reason.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Dude, calm down. Who gives a shit about a water stain? You have enough money to buy eight of these fuckers.”

Shawn chuckles, long legs striding over to sit down next to his company.

“I’m one rich mother fucker. Am I right?”

Brian gives him a weak smile and takes a swig of the alcoholic beverage.

“You’ll be one dead mother fucker if I hear the name Izzy one more time. Seriously, bro. Marcus and I both said you shouldn’t sweat it if she doesn’t fucking like you,” he changes positions to look at Shawn who has his eyebrows raised, “She didn’t matter to you before, so why does she matter so much now?”

Shawn shakes his head and tries to find something to fire back at Brian with. He tries to find something to bring up, some reason to justify his sudden obsession. He comes up empty and tries to find some bullshit answer that will get him off the hook.

“She doesn’t have a reason to not like me. Doesn’t seem fair to judge someone based off of a bad night,” Shawn reasons, but Brian knows better than to believe him right away.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Marcus thinks you have the hots for Iz and if I wasn’t your best fucking friend who’s tryna set you up with Macie, I’d say the same thing.”

Shawn grunts and licks his lips. “Macie’s annoying and I do not have a thing for Izzy. She’s a bitch, and I just wanna find out why.”

Brian downs the rest of his beer and shakes his head at his brunette friend.

“First of all, don’t call her a bitch. Maybe you aren’t as likeable as you think you are. Izzy’s friends with everyone we’re friends with, so maybe it’s not her,” he clears his throat, “It’s you.”

Shawn furrows his eyebrows, sheer annoyance clouding his face. “It’s me? That’s so stupid, Bry. That’s ridiculous.”

Brian pats his shoulder, grabbing his keys from his pocket and standing up to let himself out.

“M’gonna head out. Maybe you’ll stop giving a fuck about Izzy and what she thinks if you’re here by yourself.”

The door to Shawn’s condo slams shut and he’s left on the couch with the shock of Brian’s words still in his mind.

Maybe he shouldn’t give a fuck anymore. Maybe Brian is right. Maybe Izzy isn’t so bad afterall.

But the pesky thoughts and his damn emotional intuition says otherwise, so he spends the rest of the night picking apart his actions and his personality to find out what’s so damn unlikeable about him.

The next time Shawn steps foot in Mallory’s apartment, he takes in the millennial pink walls and house plants galore. He admires the mustard yellow couch and makes his way to the kitchen; leaving the wine coolers on the counter and greeting Mallory and Marcus with hugs.

Brian eyes him from the other side of the kitchen and uncaps a beer for him. Shawn swears they’re best friends for a reason because they have this weird telepathic power that makes them on the same page for what seems like every single waking second of the day. The beverage is passed to Shawn who almost drops it and he curses himself for being so goddamn clumsy.

Mallory shoots him a death glare. “Drop that shit and have it splatter on my couch and I swear to fucking God, I’ll have your ass.”

Brian brushes her off. “Don’t be scared. She’s just mad because Marcus won’t clap her cheeks.”

Mallory smacks Brian in the chest. “That’s not fucking why. He’s not the one denying me sex. I’m denying him sex until he takes that God awful septum piercing out,” she takes a sip of her watermelon sangria, “It’s fucking hideous.”

Shawn smirks. “Kinda like your pukey pink walls then, huh?”

She rolls her eyes, exhaling loudly through her nose. “Unbelievable. You’re lucky you bring me wine and you’re lucky you’re a redhead because I wanna strangle you both.”

Shawn and Brian laugh in each other’s faces as Mallory yells greetings towards the front door as more guests show up.

The guest list this time doesn’t exceed twelve people and Shawn went to high school with all of them. He’s truly amazed at how much hasn’t changed and how no one treats him differently.

No one screams in his face when they find out he’s near. No one faints or cries or shoves a camera in his hand when he walks by. No one asks about music or tour or anything related to his career, and if it wasn’t for “Lost in Japan” being on Mallory’s party playlist, he’s sure he himself would have forgotten he was even famous at all.

Mallory excuses herself, the ginger haired girl making a mad dash for the front door. Shawn and Brian see Marcus follow her from the corner of their eyes. They pretend like they don’t know that their friends are going to run off and start making out somewhere and that one of them (Shawn prays it’s Brian and not him) will walk in on them mid random sex position while trying to find the bathroom.

It was a given that Mallory and Marcus could never get enough of each other, and the two young men roll their eyes at their disappearance.

“If you’re gonna suck face, you can just tell us,” Brian speaks loudly to them, making sure everyone present can hear what he’s saying. “We’ve all had sex before and I think some of us would like to go to a party without being scared shitless of walking in on you two.”

The other guests inhabiting Mallory’s kitchen and living room give off small chuckles, but return to their side conversations and artsy glasses filled with booze.

Mallory runs back to the couch, sitting on top of Shawn and Brian until they spread apart to make space for her.

“It’s not a goddamn party because I made pasta. How many parties have you been to where a meal is served, asswipe?” she chastises, squished between the tall brunette and short red head.

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t tryna get some in with Marcus before anyone notices. The shit you were talking about his nose piercing doesn’t stop biology,” Shawn speaks up, pushing Mallory’s elbow away from his ribs.

“Oh fuck off. Will you?” she pulls out her phone to reply to a text, “Making out isn’t sex and last time I checked, you didn’t fucking take biology, you drop out.”

Shawn theatrically gasps, putting a hand to his chest. “Excuse me but I am a proud high school graduate. And I don’t have student loans.”

Mallory rolls her eyes, fighting off Brian attempting to squeeze her into the junction of the couch more. “Whatever. M’still smarter than you.”

The doorbell rings and Mallory groans, pulling herself up from the couch. Brian smushes her in between him and Shawn even more, making it near impossible to get out from their sturdy shoulders.

Shawn watches in childish glee as Mallory struggles to free herself from the tight space created by his and Brian’s strong bodies. He wonders how him and Mallory weren’t super close as kids because it feels as if he’s had her in his for as long as he could remember.

A dark haired girl in a dark green crop top and ripped jeans makes her way into the living room; curls surrounding her face wildly and a bottle of white wine held by its neck in her hand. The sliver of brown skin her shirt and jeans don’t cover fill Shawn with utter fear.

It’s Izzy.

He can feel Brian gulp beside him and glance towards him to gauge his reaction. Shawn rubs his hands over his face, freeing Mallory in the process. She jumps up to greet her friend and attempts to block Shawn’s view of her by standing in front of him entirely.

Brian takes the opportunity to make a joke. “Damn, Mal. You got an ass, girl.”

Mallory kicks her leg back, her black Chuck Taylor’s leaving a skid mark on Brian’s white Adidas.

“Shut the fuck up,” she hisses, attempting to prevent the wildfire that she’s sure will happen if Shawn and Izzy get a good look at each other.

Brian sighs, slightly pissed at the fellow ginger’s actions.

“You’re acting weird,” Izzy accuses, shaking her head at Mallory and giving a small wave to Brian.

Shawn holds his breath. He figures if he doesn’t speak, he can’t fuck up and nothing bad can happen.

He sits as still as can be, condensing his large frame to fit behind Mallory’s shadow. His chest gets tight and hands get clammy. He’s angry and nervous and irritated all at the same time.

“What’re you talking about? I’m fine,” Mallory defends, moving forward to usher Izzy into the kitchen.

Izzy snorts. “Nah, babe. You’re hiding your popstar friend who’s too fucking good to mingle with the rest of society.”

Brian’s mouth falls open. Shawn grinds his teeth and tries his hardest to hold his tongue. Mallory’s gaze drops to the floor. Some of the guests in the kitchen lean their heads back to get a glimpse at the conundrum waiting to happen.

Shawn laughs coldly, shaking his head in disbelief and cracking a malicious smile. “What the fuck is your problem? Being a bitch isn’t a character trait.”

Brian grips his friend’s knee, pinching the skin to let him know that this is escalating far too quickly. Mallory puts her hands on Izzy’s shoulders, hindering the brown girl from making a charge at Shawn from her position.

Her eyes widen and Izzy shoots a shit eating grin back, her brown eyes crinkling and her cheeks heating up.

“Is this really coming from the same guy who sings to prepubescent girls ten months out of the year and pretends to love his hometown and his friends whenever it makes him look more personable?” she points her finger in his face, “Putting on a persona for the world isn’t exactly a skill, Shawn. But sure, keep pretending like you give a fuck about any of us.”

Mallory rocks back and forth on her heels. Marcus ushers the rest of the guests outside to the fire pit. Brian pulls on the brunette’s t-shirt sleeve as if he’ll float away with all the hot air Izzy and Shawn are creating.

Shawn stands up, the fabric of his shirt stretching from where Brian has him gripped. “You don’t get to say anything about my loyalty or my friends or about me. You don��t even fucking know me, so who the fuck are you to try and pretend like I’m some horrid ass person?”

Izzy rolls her eyes and steps closer to Shawn. She can see his chest rise up and down in anger. She knows she’s gonna go too far. She knows she’s gonna say shit she doesn’t mean. She knows she’s gonna make Mallory and Brian damage control experts once again, but she doesn’t care.

Izzy’s angry and provoked and she’s always had a temper.

“I know enough to know that you’re fucked. You only come around a couple of times a year. You didn’t speak to Marcus for months but he’s one of your closest friends,” she steps closer and puts her finger on his chest, “Mallory wasn’t fucking good enough to be on your radar as a friend but now she’s number one on your list. Don’t play fake nice with the people who’ve been there for you from day one.”

Shawn steps closer, her face directly in line with his torso. “Don’t try to turn you getting called out into a fucking testimony about how I feel about everyone else. This is about you and me. I don’t give a fuck about what you think. I don’t give a damn about you, actually. I just wanna know what your problem is.”

Shawn walks towards the door and thrusts his jean jacket on. “But since you like to pretend like you know what I think, just know I think you’re a fucking bitch who throws hissy fits when she can’t face the music,” he turns the door knob to exit, “So fuck your attitude and fuck you.”

The mahogany door slams shut and the apartment falls into a void of silence. The three young adults can hear Shawn slam his car door and speed down the street; desperate to represent the phrase, “Out of sight, out of mind.”

Izzy huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

Brian can see Mallory’s shoulders become heavy with tension, and he knows that she’s about to blow up.

“I can’t believe you just fucking did that,” the redhead speaks, back turned to the two other people in the room.

“What’re you talking about? He’s the one who caused a shit show,” Izzy tries to reason.

Mallory turns around, red curls appearing like fire due to how fast she moves. “No. No, he isn’t. I- I can’t deal with you right now, Iz.”

Izzy’s mouth widens. “I was sticking up for you. You don’t deserve to have people walk all over you like-”

“Don’t you get it? We’re not fucking six anymore. I don’t need you to stick up for me. I don’t need you to try and police good people out of my life! You’re not fucking God, Isobel. You don’t get to kill people off because of how you feel.”

Izzy swallows. Mallory only calls her Isobel when she’s pissed beyond belief. Being called Isobel by her best friend in the entire fucking world and knowing deep in her heart that Mallory is angry with her brings back the lump she felt in her throat everyday so many years ago.

“M’sorry,” she whispers, letting herself out and walking to her car to drive herself home.

Izzy can see Marcus out of the corner of her eye as she drives away. She has to pull over five minutes down the road to let out the sobs that were choking her since Mallory gave her that icy look.

She wipes her tears and rushes upstairs to her apartment before collapsing on her couch. The comfort of the TV show she wasn’t watching gives her some sense of security. Her phone rings repeatedly for the rest of the night, but Izzy can’t bring herself to answer.

She watches Mallory and Brian’s contact photos flash on her screen though black mascara tears.

It’s times like these when Izzy wishes she could erase the the words that exited her mouth and burn the guilt that emitted from her heart.

#sm #shawn mendes #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes imagines #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes oneshot #shawn mendes oneshots #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes blurbs #shawn blurbs #shawn blurb #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes au #shawn mendes x oc #enemies to friends to lovers #slow burn #grudges #heartsofminds

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chocojjk · 5 years

Text

cafes and pinky promises

summary: bff! felix → idol! felix ,,, like i said , i suck at summaries

words: 2.8k

a/n: yall im on a roll, i really don't know why im writing so much these past few days but enjoy,, i hope

not edited, per usual

as you entered your favorite cafe, you never expected to come face to face with the boy who filled up every second of your thoughts

in fact, it was the very boy that has created so many memories with you in this same exact place

you wanted to go up to him, to see how he was doing, ask him how idol life been treating him but you found yourself glued to the floor, unable to move

every single memory with him suddenly flashing in mind

the two of you met back in middle school

it was the typical story

you were the new kid in school,

didn't have any friends,,

sat alone at lunch,,,

then one day he came up to you wearing his brightest smile, the freckles upon his cheeks shining up like the stars in the sky

“hi, im felix”

(❁´◡`❁)

and the rest was history

you guys became the best of friends, practically glued to the hip

but let’s skip all that friendship fluff and fast forward to second year of high school

you guys have been best friends for a good four years now

one of the things that you guys love doing is going to the cafe a little out of town

the cafe had free wifi and barely any people so it became a routine to just go there after school and goof around

dont get me wrong, you guys do homework too

#getyoureducationkids

also like #fuckthesystem

anyways,,,,

since you guys were the smartest in your class, it never really took that long to finish homework and instead you guys would just have fun listening to music, telling bad jokes, watching a show on netflix, and sometimes even just playing rock paper and scissors

there’s never a dull moment between the two of you

honestly if it wasn’t for you and felix, the cafe would probably be out of business

even the owner knew you two

she was the sweetest old lady, always giving you guys extra cookies and letting you stay for as long as you can

she would also always joke around about how you two would make the cutest couple, comparing the two of you to her and her husband who were high school sweethearts

being young, the thought first made you wanna vomit

like ew,,, boys are gross

but as you grew older, you started seeing the boy in a different light

the small touches and the hand holding suddenly started to have meaning

everytime he laughed, it was music to your ears

his freckles became the most beautiful thing in the world, and you loved tracing each one of them

sure, you guys have had your own share of petty fights but at the end of the day it did nothing but strengthen the friendship that you two share

there were never any secrets

(((besides of course these feelings that were growing but shh we dont speak of that)))

you knew felix like the back of your hand and vice versa

and you could just see yourself spending every moment with him in the upcoming future

until of course one day,

“y/n, i need to tell you something but pinky promise you won’t get mad?”

“felix every time someone says that, people tend to be mad”

“y/n just pinky promise me you wont”

“ok, i pinky promise, now what is it??”

felix was absolutely terrified

he’s been meaning to tell you this for a while but every time he tried he just couldn't find the words to do so

and god, how he has let time pass him by

“im moving to korea”

you bursted out laughing and felix is confused as heck like?????

whats??

so ???

funny????

“seriously lix, you made me pinky promise not to be mad over a joke??”

you see, pinky promises may seem like a childish thing but it was sacred between the two of you

so when he used it over a joke, you just couldn’t help but let out a few couple giggles

however, as you turned to face him and saw the serious expression written on his face you found yourself at loss for words

“wait, are you serious?”

“yeah”

“wh-when are you leaving?”

“in a month”

“h-how long have you known???”

“ummmm” (´･_･`)

“felix.”

“Since we went to the park”

the park

you remembered that day, it was probably one of the happiest days of your life

you passed your math test with a perfect score and has just become the student body president of your class

on top of that, felix decided he wanted to treat you out for ice cream as he was proud of his best friend

what you didnt know was that this was the day that would change everything

this was the day he was scouted

the day he received the news that he was accepted as a trainee

and hes been finding a way to tell you

but he just couldn't

you were completely over the moon

as you guys were sitting on the swings, your hands occupied with your own ice cream cones

felix started talking about his dance team and choir class

you always knew how much he enjoyed those classes

yet as he talked about his passion, his eyes twinkling and his mouth curving into the softest smile, you truly got a grasp on how much your best friend loved music and performing

you can't help but think back to a few days ago, when your friend brought up how much your eyes sparkled talking about felix

you wondered if you looked the same as how felix looked now, talking about the things that he loved to do

and then it hit you

you were in love with your best friend

god reader, how cliche could you be (●'◡'●)ﾉ♥

“felix, that was two months ago.”

to say you were mad was an understatement,, you were filled with rage

anger and disappointment all just combining into one

suddenly the future that you clearly saw vanished because every single one of those versions had the boy by your side

“im sorry”

not knowing how to respond, you started packing up your things in your backpack

felix just watching you do so, thinking of things to say to make the situation at hand better

once you stood up, he snapped out of his thoughts, worry completely washing over his eyes

“where are you going?”

“im going home.” you say emotionlessly

“let me walk you”

“no”

and that was the last of it

he tried calling you several times after that yet all he was left with was your voicemail

every time he approached you at school, you would walk the other way

every day he would show up at the cafe hoping to see your face, yet that day never came because you stopped going

you figured it’d be easier to let him go if you just stayed mad at him

you figured that your feelings would automatically go away if you replaced them with hate

but reader, you were so wrong

the day came when he finally had to go

that day was painfully hard for you

your whole class was bidding him goodbye, and all you could do was watch from the sidelines, your pride way too high to forgive him now

no one really knew about your guys’ fall out as you found it was better to keep things to yourself than become the schools new gossip

and so when everyone started asking you how you felt, you responded with the most generic answers

“whatever makes him happy, im happy”

oh reader, you are such a liar

it wasn't until a year after, that you truly forgave him

and that was because a classmate of yours barged into the room, waving her phone around

“Guys remember felix!, well he’s an idol now!!”

as soon as you got home that day, you searched up his name, and there he was

Lee Felix

Stray Kids

and you realized how stupid you’ve been

you never even bothered asking him why he was leaving

you cried yourself to sleep that night as you look back on the wasted friendship that you threw down the drain

but you figured that there was no point in being sad over it anymore

you were done holding grudges

so the next day you went back to the cafe and binged the survival show that your best friend, well ex best friend, was in

the sweet old day was overjoyed when she saw your familiar face

she asked you where your partner in crime was and with a genuine smile you responded with “he’s out there doing bigger and greater things”

ever since then, you made the cafe a weekly trip

it hurt you to know that you spent your time resenting him so you made a pinky promise to yourself, that even if he didnt know, you would support him no matter what

you ended up buying all their albums

watching their vlives

staying up late for their debuts

hell, you've even gon to the point of making a stan account just to be be updated

which brings you to now

you knew that felix was in australia, they were having a concert here

you even got a ticket for yourself, not close enough where he could see you of course

you were still ashamed of your actions even though it’s been almost two years

so when you walked in the cafe and saw him with his 8 buds seated in your guys’ usual spot, you definitely didn't know how to react

seeming as they haven't spotted you yet, you quickly made your way out the door

however, Elise, the sweet old lady, had other plans

“y/n, honey, leaving so quickly?”

and that was when 9 heads turned to the door

all 18 eyes just looking at you

‘fuck y/n okay just act cool’

‘youre fine’

‘maybe they don't even notice you’

‘omg speak’

“y/n?” felix says, his deep voice breaking you out of your thoughts

“felix?? Hi!!!” you say, giving him the biggest fake smile ever

it’s not that you wanted to okay, it was just a very awkward situation and you have no idea how to act

‘smooth y/n, so smooth’

I swear if you could facepalm yourself, you’d be doing so with both of your hands + the hands of the 7 billion people on this earth

“uhm hi?,” he replies, obviously confused as to why you suddenly acknowledged his existence

truth to be told, he was expecting you to ignore him just like all the other times before

“well, won't you look at that, my two musketeers are back together,” Elise butts in,

“ah, it's just like the old days, would you guys like some cookies???” she says, a soft smile on her face

“no that's okay El, im heading out soon anyways, can i just have the usual caramel macchiato?” you say quickly, ignoring the awkward tension in the air

“sure thing hon”

and as she goes to the back to make your order, you were left with the 9 boys

welp

its now or never

“uhm, when did you get back?”

you ask, your hands automatically playing with the hem of your shirt, a clear sign that you were nervous

“im just here for the week”

“oh,,, nice”

“Yeah”

(>_<)

the other boys just sitting in silence, going back and forth between the two of you

they know exactly who you are, and trust me, they arent your biggest fans

which is exactly why they chose to not break the awkward tension in the air

and you swear, you wish you can just have the earth open up and swallow you whole

“hon, heres your order!”

oh thank god,,

Elise is your savior

even though you wouldnt even be in this situation if it wasnt for her

you quickly grab your drink and make your way out,,, but not before saying

“uhm, it was nice seeing you again lix,” you say, this time, a genuine smile on your face

◐ˍ◑

when felix heard the nickname that you've once given him, he couldn't believe his ears

great job reader, you’ve left him stunned

taking his silence as a response, cause youre kinda a dumbass, you nodded to him and the other boys and left the cafe

however as you made your way to your car

something clicked inside of you

,,,,

fuck it

,,,,

you ran back to the cafe, grabbing the door wide open at the same exact time that felix pushed it open

which caused him to stumble right on top of you, your coffee being thrown a whole meter away

at least it wasn't on your shirt

“omygod im so sorry! are you okay?” he asks, picking you up and checking you for bruises

and youve realized that he hasnt changed one bit

he’s still your best friend felix

the same felix that treats you with so much love and care

the same felix you fell in love with all those years ago

and you couldnt help but let out a tear

this worried felix even more

“what is it?? whats wrong???”

you were blown out sobbing at this point

“Im ๑•́ㅿ•̀๑) ᔆᵒʳʳᵞ ”

“huh??”

“im so sorry felix, i-”

your emotions not allowing you to create a single coherent sentence

but because felix still knew you like the back of his hand, he knew exactly what you were talking about

“lets go inside okay”

all you could do was nod and let him guide you to your usual spot that was now empty

grabbing a couple napkins, he wipes your tears away for you before you finally became conscious of what was happening and took control

“I didnt know you still came to this cafe?” he says, finally breaking the silence

“yeah uhm, i started coming back,”

“why?”

“I-i guess i just missed you”

“I thought you hated me”

“No,” you say quickly, that was the last thing you wanted him to think

“i didnt hate you, i was just angry and sad and i acted upon those emotions. I was stupid, im sorry”

“its okay, i understand, youre not stupid y/n”

god damn it,,

why is this guy so nice,,

“no felix, it's not okay. we were best friends, i should have talked to you. I-i shouldnt have cut you off like that especially when i didnt even give you a chance to explain yourself”

damn okay reader, admitting to your mistakes, im p r o u d

“Its all in the past now y/n”

“can you forgive me for being a bitch?” 👉👈

This got a chuckle from felix

“as long as you can forgive me for keeping a secret from you” he replies, shooting you a smile

you smile back at him

“ive forgiven you a long time ago lix”

,,,,

felix has stopped malfunctioning

“ive missed you,” he says grabbing your hand from across the table and holding it the way he used to

“ive missed you too,,, so much,,, im so proud of you,”

“proud of me?”

“yeah, youve finally done what youve always dreamt of”

“you know?”

“of course i know lix, youre everywhere!”

“it kinda sucks how you know whats been going on in my life and i dont know a single clue about yours”

“I can always catch you up!” you say excitedly, but as you see the sad smile that began to etch his way onto his face, you see that that’s not the case

“busy schedule?” you question

“yeah” he replies, the grip on your hand becoming tighter, almost like he doesnt want to let go

“thats okay, im sure we’ll find some time,” you say maintaining the positive energy

right on cue, chan peeps his head in the door

“Felix we have to go now, i tried convincing them to give you more time but were already running behind schedule”

“aish” felix replies as his tears suddenly made his way down

he gets up and pulls you into a bone crushing hug as you breathe in his scent, taking it all in

“im sorry i have to go so soon”

“thats okay felix, ill always be here”

“i hope i can see you again before I leave,”

“oh dont worry, you will” you say, a big smile on your face

“what do you mean?”

“just watch out for me at the concert, yeah?”

“youre coming???!!!!??”

“yep, already got my ticket!”

and you swear youve never seen felix smile so brightly before

“you pinky promise?”

“I pinky promise.”

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